Blood and Silver
by LornaHarrisonStan
Summary: The year is 1880, and vampires stalk the streets of London, masquerading as humans. Sebastian Moran and Lorna Harrison struggle to resist each other, this time in another universe. A Victorian AU with a different plot than my other stories - no need to have read them to read this one. Explicit.
1. A Lovely Party

Getting into the party had been easy. She hadn't expected it to be, but she'd grabbed the arm of the nearest gentleman on his way in and he'd been so taken by her looks that he'd smiled and introduced himself, and allowed her to sidle in past the doorman with ease.

It wasn't long before she was bored of him, of course, but that was just the kind of woman she was. Humans didn't hold her interest, and she knew virtually none of her own kind, here in London. America, sure, but this was a different matter. And in America, they'd been a little easier to find. The fish swimming just underneath the big millionaire sharks - they'd all been her kind. Pulling the strings, pocketing money, staying in the shadows, where they wouldn't be noticed by the common man. But America was becoming inhospitable, and the conflicts weren't the same. The war had been a beautiful thing, with low hanging bounty just waiting to be harvested, but the conflicts brewing these days were often bloodless, yet just as damaging. Her violent break with her partner aside, she needed a fresh start. So here she was, dressed to impress in a scarlet gown, cinched in tight at the waist, courtesy of her breathing habits (or lack thereof), with rubies adorning her throat, and her hair pulled up in the fashion of the age. She stood in an alcove off the main hall, where the majority of the partygoers were, a glass of champagne in her hand, admiring a tapestry on the wall which must have dated to the 1500s.

He had first seen her two hours after the party had begun. She had been wandering through the crowd- a novelty in a sea of familiarity- carrying a drink like a lily and smiling charmingly at whoever she passed. He had motioned two of his men to Moriarty's side, then, and slid after her. His feet were silent on the thick carpeting of the rooms, and he managed to approach quite close without her noticing, even isolated as she now was in a corner. "Fine party, wouldn't you say?" he asked, leaning against the wall beside her.

A normal woman would have jumped at a strange man suddenly appearing by their side while they were alone, but Lorna's gaze didn't waver from the tapestry. "I've seen better, to be perfectly honest," she said, shrugging lightly, a delicate movement. She took a sip of champagne, and looked over to meet his gaze, where she was pleasantly surprised by the sight that greeted her. A smile spread across her face. "Well, well, well, here I thought there was nobody worth looking at at this gathering. What's your name, sir?"

"Careful, the elite will hear you," he responded with a slow smile. "Many of them have rather delicate egoisms." He reached up to adjust his collar slightly. "The name is O'Rorik. And you?" He enjoyed playing with food. It broke the monotony.

"Armetti," she smiled, giving a small curtsy. "And what do I care if I offend a few delicate sensibilities? What shall they do to me?"

He smiled, inclining his head slightly as she curtsied. He made no particular effort at manners beyond that. She didn't deserve them. "Armetti... Now _there_ is a name I have not heard in far too long." His eyes glinted. "Any relation to the New York Armettis?"

That surprised her. She didn't know that Vincent was well known past America's borders. And... Perhaps he wasn't. She looked at this man with more appraising eyes. The likelihood that he was a being like her was slim, yet... Underestimating him would be a fatal mistake. She smiled a little, nodding her head slightly. Time to lie, to test the depth of his knowledge. "My husband. You know him?"

"We've brushed elbows," he said, straightening and eyeing the woman up, adjusting his waistcoat down slightly as he did so. "It's good to hear that he's found someone to keep an eye on him. Where is he? I should pay my respects." His eyes glinted.

"Not with me today, unfortunately. He had business to attend to. I, however, was bored," she smiled. That was also untrue. She and Vincent had had an ugly separation.

He raised an eyebrow, certainty a warm flame kindling in his gut. "I'm surprised. It's not like Vincent to let his women off of his arm. I would have thought he would be even more possessive of his wife."

Something like bitterness crossed her face before she forced a smile, shrugging delicately. "He's a strong-headed fellow, yes, but even a woman occasionally needs her independence, no?"

"A sentiment I can agree with." He offered her his arm. "Allow me to show you around?"

She smiled, taking it graciously. "Absolutely. I've been bumbling about on my own, apparently making a fool of myself."

"I find it difficult to believe that you would make a fool of yourself," he said, walking from the alcove out along the rim of the dance floor. "You strike me as much more deliberate than someone who steps first and thinks second."

She smirked a little at his flattering. "Perhaps that's my ideal self. Sometimes I can live up to it, but other times, I think I get a little sick of such strict restraint. But I guess the real question is whether or not I judge myself more or less harshly than my peers, isn't it?"

"A dividing trait among people, I find," he responded pensively. "I find I far prefer those who judge themselves more harshly. Much more tolerable egoism." He turned to enter a small hall off of the dance floor. It was dimly lit by beautiful gas lamps in sconces on the walls, and richly (if subtly) decorated. Fine gold tracing spread across crimson wallpaper, etching elegant spiderwebs which extended the length of the hall. Small jewel spiders glinted here and there on the web. "The back rooms of these places always seem more elegant, don't you think?" Sebastian hummed.

"Only in the places worth visiting," she replied easily, eyes tracing the spiderwebs on the wall. It was a unique aesthetic. Something the common person wouldn't think to mimic. "It's beautiful. Who designed this?"

"The owner of the building employs several artists and architects to create the atmosphere he desires. It changes frequently." He stopped in front of a dark wooden door about halfway down the hall, pushing it open. "Here. Let me show you one of my favorite rooms." He motioned for her to proceed him.

Had she not been a creature of the night, she would have been suspicious, having been led away from a party and asked to enter a room first. But the odds were unlikely this man was her kin, and she was confident in her abilities regardless. She smiled and entered, unsure as to what she would discover.

This room was a stark contrast from the elegantly furnished rooms outside. Though the wallpaper and carpet were both beautiful, the room itself was empty apart from a bare, though lovely, solid wooden desk, and two chairs. Moran shut the door behind him, and turned the key in the lock, slipping it into his pocket. When he turned to face her, his gun was drawn. "Do have a seat, Mrs. Armetti."

She sighed, disappointed. "Alright," she said calmly, walking over to sink carefully into one of the chairs, posture rigid. If her heart had still beat with any regularity, it would have been steady. So _he was_ human. Best not to play her cards too soon. "Is there a reason you're holding me at gunpoint?"

He slid his thumb along the black enameled grip, relaxed, as he walked around the desk to sit at the other chair. "I don't think too highly of party crashers. It puts my charges at risk."

"And so you point a gun at a harmless young woman? Mr. O'Rorik, that's a bit of an overreaction," she chided, gloved hands resting in her satin lap. "And an acquaintance of Vincent, too. A pity."

"I find that overreacting is much more sustainable than underreacting in my profession. I'll de-escalate as I decide it's necessary. And are you just an acquaintance now? Whatever happened to wife?"

"I was referring to you, Mr. O'Rorik," she chuckled, shaking her head. "Believe me, if you were to call him right now, I believe he would very much insist I to be his wife."

He shrugged. "See, that's the odd part... Mr. Armetti is usually so cautious to inform Mr. M. when he intends to enter his turf. So either he is safely back in New York- in which case I'll be _happy_ to ring him up and inform him of the whereabouts of his darling wife- or he's here unannounced, in which case, the gun is _very_ warranted. Giving you the benefit of the doubt... shall I ring him up?" He opened a drawer and picked up a telephone handset with his free hand.

She shrugged. It was true, Vince was in America. But he would still help her get out of this. That was just the depth of his love. "Call him. Tell him where his wayward wife is."

He raised an eyebrow, interested at that response. He picked up the telephone, pressing it to his ear and reaching out to dial... But instead he vaulted up and over the desk, letting the phone fall aside as he grabbed the woman by the throat, propelling them both passed the smashed remnants of her chair as they moved with surprising speed to be pressed against the wall. "Or I could just kill you anyway," he growled with a grin.

Her fangs snapped out in reflex, her hands going to grab his throat, nails digging into his skin, pupils dilated to the max, and a laugh bubbled up out of her as she pressed back with equal force, straining off the wall. "I _wondered_ if you were like me! You're the first new vampire I've met since I was born, you know that?"

He smiled at the fangs as well, but didn't let her drop, ignoring the hand at his throat. It wasn't as though either of them needed to breathe. He flicked a silver knife out of his belt with his right hand, the handle carefully bound in cloth. "Charmed, I'm sure. Now, Mrs. Armetti... Why don't you explain your presence here?"

Her laughter died out, eyes on the knife, the amusement dropping out of her expression. "It's Harrison, actually. Miss. We never really got married, you see. He said it was to protect me, and the longer we were together the more I was happy about it. I'm in England to avoid him finding me and trying to win me back; I'm sick of it, and I simply don't have the energy for it. I came to this party tonight unaware that it was being thrown by my kin. I was simply looking for an easy meal, perhaps a more permanent residence. I apologize for encroaching on your territory, Mr. O'Rorik. Would you mind setting me down, now?"

"The name's Moran, actually. Perhaps Armetti has mentioned me, or my employer." He ignored the bit about setting her down. "Now... Let us play a logic exercise. A very good reason I should not kill you right now would be...?"

She shook her head slightly. His name rang no bells. Vincent had limited her knowledge to keep her close, regrettably. "Allow me to enter into your service. I'm sure there must be something you can use me for. I only ask not to be sent back to Vincent, should you decide to let me live."

"What use could you be to me?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, not uninterested. Armetti had kept this woman around for at least a decade, if she was who he thought she was. She had to be more than a decorative piece.

"I'm an accomplished smuggler, among talents given to me by my bloodline," she said hopefully, aware that she'd piqued his curiosity and now trying to reel him in. "Vincent did offer me a little training. Mostly in telepathy."

He raised an eyebrow, lowering her slowly to the ground, though he kept the knife in hand, waiting for her to release her own grip. "I suppose I could give you a trial run... I'm never one to waste a good opportunity."

She let go of him and immediately sighed at the state of her gloves - splits in the ends of all her fingers - and pulled them off, grimacing slightly. "Well, I'm glad we've come to an agreement. Thank you, Mr. Moran, for not killing me outright. I rather like living and I'd hate to prove Vincent right. So what do we do now?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Now we bring you to my employer. He'll decide whether he agrees with my decision to keep you. Come along." He slid the knife into a sheath sewn into his jacket. It disappeared seamlessly.

She nodded and clasped her hands together in front of her to try and minimize the fact that she wasn't wearing gloves, supremely uncomfortable. A lady always wore gloves, and she wasn't interested in becoming shunned from society just because he'd attacked her.

He headed for the door, pulling the key out of his pocket and unlocking it. "Oh, and Ms. Harrison? You are, of course, free to run off if you like. I have absolute confidence that you will get no farther than I want you to. I trust I am being clear." He opened the door.

She smiled a little, giving a slight shrug. "Mr. Moran, where could I possibly run off to?"

"Perfectly clear, it seems," he smiles, opening the door and motioning her through. It was a small matter to find Moriarty. The boss had a private back room which he kept stocked with people important to him- for various reasons- and which filtered out the necessary-but-dull riff-raff. Moran nodded to the men at the door as he passed, and both bowed slightly in respect, though their eyes remained on the party around them.

The room beyond was smaller by far than the main hall, but still spacious for the thirty or so people milling about. The atmosphere was smokey, but warmly lit by red-tinted gas lamps. The walls of this room, too, were traced in gold, though here the inscriptions were sigils and dark texts from across the known world, a long collection of the occult displayed for all to see. The theme was continued in the decor- rare books and artifacts on display in the weird lighting.

Most of the room's inhabitants were men, though there were several high-society women as well. There were also a half dozen dark-eyed escorts of both sexes: women with skirts that stopped at the knee and were slit to reveal thighs and garters of all sorts, and young men in very little more than waistcoats. In the center of it all- a head shorter but a world higher than any of the highly-influential attendees- stood the host himself. James Moriarty, resplendent in a crimson suit, stood with an air of command near a gilded chair near the head of the room- though he rarely sat. Instead he paced, watching over those in attendance and occasionally entering a conversation with a quick word. He was lively, eyes bright as he tracked dozens of conversations and transactions, dogged carefully by the dark-suited men Sebastian had left to protect him.

Moran approached, nodding when the boss caught his gaze. His employer needed no signal, simply flicked his hand toward a door in the back of the room which led to a private office. Moran motioned for Harrison to follow him, and lead the way.

Her eyes lingered on the escorts first, and then the men and women around them, wondering what kind of place this was that could be so open with its true being. She no longer felt self-conscious about her missing gloves. Vincent had held gatherings for the New York kin, but those had been less outwardly salacious than this, although a sight bloodier, and she was getting a tingling feeling that told her Moran's employer was similar to Vincent, in more ways than one. A collector of the extraordinary, a member of the fiends of night, and a man with ambitions, if she was guessing correctly; and she often did.

Moran waited for James and Lorna to enter the room, then closed the door. Moriarty turned to eye the woman up and down, and smiled slowly. "Ms. Harrison... you've wandered a bit far, it seems, just to crash our humble party." He walked over to a cushioned chair, and sat. "How was your crossing? I hear the Britannic is a splendid vessel, though I'm afraid to say my schedule has rather prevented me from trying the passage for myself."

She raised her eyebrows, not expecting to have her story told by someone other than herself. Was he telepathic? In a more _useful_ way than herself? She decided to just roll with it. "It was an interesting crossing. And I didn't mean to crash _this_ party in particular, just _a_ party. May I ask your name, sir?"

"I don't see why not," he said, flashing a smile. "I'm either going to end you, or hire you, at this point. I am James Moriarty. A fact which- repeated- will result in your immediate termination." His tone was cheery, but then he sobered and glanced at Moran. "I want the city turned over for Armetti's people. Start a corpsefire. He'll have sent people to follow her. I want them eliminated." Moran nodded.

She bristled slightly at the idea she might be being tailed, pressing her hands to her bodice, posture straightening as much was possible. "If I can help draw them out, I'd appreciate being allowed to help. I was very clear to Vincent I was done with his _help."_

James glanced at her, then shrugged. "I'll leave that to your discretion, Moran. See that our new guest is properly housed and fed, and made aware of the rules." He stood, considering Lorna for a moment. "And tag her." With that, he left the room, returning to the noise and music of his domain.

She looked over at Sebastian, confused. "Tag.. me?"

He nodded, motioning for her to have a seat in a wooden chair that was much plainer than the one Moriarty had used. "It won't take long." He walked over to a cabinet in the corner.

She did as told, although somewhat hesitantly, satin skirts rustling. "What does tagging entail, Mr. Moran?"

He returned a moment later with two thick leather straps, each with iron buckles. "It is a protection measure for Professor Moriarty's people. It ensures your safe passage through the city. Put your hands and arms face up on the arms of the chair." He waited, straps in hand, for her to comply.

She did so, more hesitantly, eyes on the straps. "I feel you're leaving out some important details, sir."

He layed one strap across her left arm, buckling it snugly beneath the chair arm, and did the same on her right side. "You know what you need to." He straightened, and, stepping back slightly, removed his jacket and began meticulously rolling up his left sleeve. His bared forearm was scarred extensively, if oddly. Carefully spaced, neat marks along the outside of his arm that were roped with repeated rehealing. He pulled another knife from his jacket, this one different than the first. It was small and wickedly sharp, made of bronze rather than silver, with black enameled tiger stripes slashing across the back of the blade. He glanced up at Lorna for a moment, as if evaluating her, then chose one of the scars on his left arm, and opened it precisely with the blade, dark blood oozing out.

She recoiled slightly, surprised, her eyes growing wide. She'd been taught enough to know that this was taboo, and she pulled slightly at the straps. She could probably break them, given a desperate enough moment, but it didn't seem worth it for now. "Mr. _Moran,_ please, at least buy me dinner first," she jested weakly, nervously. She'd never drank of another vampire's bloodline before. Vincent's, yes, but it was clear to her by now he was not a Luxurian.

He smiled up at her, calm. "Take a deep breath, Ms. Harrison. You won't need to drink. This is a simple procedure." He walked closer, the blood pooling slowly in the wound, as his arm was still raised. He knelt beside her, and without further explanation, sunk his teeth into her left wrist. He kept the bite small, just one fang, which extended quickly and punctured deep, leaving a deep, circular wound. He pulled away, the hint of her taste on his tongue as he lowered his arm. Gravity did its work, and blood flowed faster now and dripping into the wound. This all happened in the span of a second- he had learned to be quick.

She jolted, startled, pressing up hard against the straps for a moment before it was over, taking a deep, unnecessary breath. "Well, that was violating," she said acidly, setting her teeth, and fixing him with something just short of a glare.

He sat back on his heels, and then stood, tucking the knife away. He pulled a roll of gauze out of his pocket and bound his arm with precise movements. "You'll be given food in a few minutes, it will be mostly healed by the time you're finished."

"You couldn't have explained a little further _before,_ Mr. Moran?" She huffed, ignoring the part about being fed. "I would have consented, had you just explained yourself. Instead now I'm upset and discombobulated. I'm a rational woman, believe me."

He smiled, flashing one fang. "Relax, Ms. Harrison. I know what's best for you.

A rush of anger flooded through her, fueled by bitterness of Vincent's making, and she rose to her feet, snapping the tighter of the leather bands, her fangs extending. "Do _not_ presume to know what's best for me, _sir._ I _alone_ know that, thank you very _much._ I _swear_ _to God,_ I'll tear the throat out of the next man to presume such.'

He laughed, genuinely amused and intrigued by her display. "No offense was meant, Ms. Harrison. Allow me to explain. You are laboring under the very American presumption that you have rights. This is, regrettably, inaccurate. You have bought your life with your autonomy. We shall see when and if you earn it back." He reached out to undo the other strap before she had the chance to break it.

She snatched her hand back, still incensed but not really in a place to do much about it. "I'm not American, Mr. Moran, I would have thought the accent would tip you off to that," she snapped, though her fangs were once again hidden from view, and her gaze was less iron than before. "Apologies for my... Display. I have a _history_ with your previous statement."

"You were born in America," he pointed out. "Your former self may have been British, but not here. You know nothing of our kind in Britain, that is clear, or you never would have made so many mistakes in dealing with us. You're lucky I found you." He ignored her apology, content to let her stew in unimportance. "Come. The boss wants you fed."

She gave a slight nod, looking away from him, her anger bouncing around in her head with nowhere to vent, and she wondered if there would be recompense for her making a kill while under their roof.

He motioned for her to stand, and headed for the door. "There's a bloodbar downstairs. You can eat there."

She wrinkled her nose slightly in distaste behind his back, not relishing the thought of cold blood, but following him dutifully.

He led her out of the office and back into the inner room. Jim was back to socializing, and didn't look their direction as Moran led them past another set of guards and down a flight of stone steps and through a thick wooden door. Beyond the door was a low-ceilinged, expansive stone crypt of sorts, extending hundreds of feet in all directions and supported by slim pillars. The place was oddly warm, heated by fires which flickered near a few of the pillars, enclosed by screens, blocking most of their light. Outlined by the faint orange glow which escaped the screens was a gridwork of sofas, centered between the pillars, dozens of them. A few figures walked between the sofas, just visible in the dim light. Moran motioned for Lorna to follow and walked down an aisle between columns, stopping eventually by one of the couches. The flickering light made perception difficult, until a young woman seemed to materialize out of the couch, wrapped in blankets. Moran smiled and spoke. "How many have you had?"

"Just two, tonight, sir. Still go' a few more in me."

"This one is hungry. She will finish you for tonight. Serve her and go home, and mention Moran to the hostess. She'll give you a gift from me."

"Of course, sir. Thank ya' sir." She smiled expectantly at Lorna, and bared her neck. Moran motioned Lorna forward. "Do take care not to drain her entirely, Ms. Harrison."

That picked up her mood drastically.

This hadn't been what she'd thought it was going to be at all. A smile snuck onto her face, bidden by the attractive young thing in front of her. "Of course. It would be a shame to waste beauty such as her, would it not?" She said smoothly, taking a few steps forward and outstretching her hand for the woman to take.

She did, kissing Lorna's knuckles with a smile and pulling her down onto the couch with a gentle but insistent tug. "You're too kind, ma'am."

She smirked, following her down onto the sofa, leaning forward to kiss the woman on her cheek, her other hand lifting to brush her hair away from her neck. "Close your eyes, darling..."

"If that's 'ow you'll have me," the young woman said pleasantly, closing her eyes and tilting her head. There were already two bruised sets of marks on the tender skin there, her pulse flicking away brightly beneath her skin, accented by the flamelight.

She leaned forward without further ado, the excitement of close blood tingling beneath her skin, and sank her fangs into the woman's neck.

Oh, blood. Blood, blood, wonderful blood. She shivered visibly as the stuff rolled across her tongue.

Moran watched as she drank eagerly. He'd known she was hungry- had felt her need the instant he had touched her. He wondered how hard she had had to ration herself aboard the steamer- it had only gotten in earlier that day. The party had likely been her first attempt at a hunt. It was interesting, the glint she had gotten in her eyes when she saw the girl. More than hunger. Lust, perhaps... He let it slide for the moment.

She drank until the first hint that the girl was beginning to weaken, and then she drew back immediately, well aware of watchful eyes on her, and of the vulnerability of the moment. Really, he was committing yet another taboo, hovering while she fed; such a vulnerable moment was best left to privacy. She wiped her mouth as she drew back with a handkerchief drawn from her dress pocket, glancing up at him, her lips stained red, eyes dark. "Alright, I'm sated."

He nodded slightly, looking Harrison over. Her skin was flush with the barest hint of pulse and movement, and when he looked at her wrist, the puncture he had left there was beginning to clot and scab. It hadn't been a large meal, but it would rejuvenate her a little. It would also circulate his blood through her body more thoroughly. Already, she smelled like one of his. He'd be able to follow her anywhere if she decided to make a break for it. He nodded his approval to her, and bent down to their willing victim. The girl was sprawled lazily across the couch, resting, exhausted. He reached out and dabbed a dribble of blood off of her neck with his finger, bringing it up to his lips, before turning toward the exit. "Come with me, Ms. Harrison."

She nodded and stood, a spring to her step, her poor mood fizzled away with the sweet taste of blood. "How do you hire anybody to do this? What's the process?" She asked curiously, a step behind him.

"You'd be surprised how many people are willing to make a little money for their blood." His tone was almost bored, as if this were an explanation he had given many times. "Most are prostitutes or street waifs. They provide blood twice monthly, and keep silent about our practices. In exchange, we keep them fed and give them access to doctors, along with a small stipend. We almost always have access to more people than we need."

She nodded thoughtfully, wondering why Vincent had never bothered to do the same. His "blood bags," as he called them, were simply criminals plucked from the jaws of justice to spend the rest of their lives serving the creatures of the night. Usually, they were too grateful to have escaped execution to protest the occasional draining. "Very neat."

He smiled just a little. "It's a good system." It also provided them with eyes and ears almost everywhere in the city, but she didn't need to know that. They passed a set of guards, and he stopped. "Mr. Glim, Mr. Scott, if you will please escort Ms. Harrison here to the guest's quarters? See that she is not disturbed in any way." The men nodded, stepping out of their posts. "Ms. Harrison, this is where I leave you for now," Moran said with a smile. "I have a city to turn over."

She nodded, smiling slightly. "Good hunting, Mr. Moran."

Moran returned to his chambers, changing quickly out of his party clothes and into a more subtle uniform for the dingy streets of London. He needed to walk unnoticed in any street. The answer was a dark wool suit, just poor enough to pass in back alleys, just neat enough for main streets. He tucked his pocket watch into his waistcoat after checking the time. He had six hours before dawn. He loved the winter- long nights and short days. He headed for the surface.

Lorna was shown her quarters, and was pleased to find them up to her expectations. She'd grown used to a life of comfort living under Vincent's wing, and she would be loathe to give it up now.

* * *

The first tendrils of dawn were threatening to give him a headache when he finally returned to the network. He let out sigh of relief as he entered the light-sealed building and descended, off to find his new acquisition.

She was reading in her quarters, a book about the cruelty of hunting birds solely for their feathers, having figured that she was confined to the one space for the moment.

Moran approached her door, and knocked briskly. Giving her a moment to object, he opened the door. He didn't want her losing the knowledge that she was still under observation. He nodded to her as he entered. "Ms. Harrison. Good morning. How are you finding your stay?"

"Surprisingly comfortable, Mr. Moran, thank you for asking," she said, shutting her book and looking up at him, her hand resting on the hard leather cover. "I assume you're here for a reason?"

He nodded. "Armetti has sent men after you. They're staying down by the docks for the time being. It seems he already had a few men here on business, and re-purposed them."

"Oh, Vincent," she said quietly, her eyes cold. "You never could just leave me _be."_ She had left America, her home now for twenty-odd years, just to escape his overbearing ways, and yet he still couldn't resist intruding upon her independence. He'd always been possessive. She looked back at Moran, her eyebrows lifting slightly. "And you want me to lure them in, is that it?"

He nods slightly. "That would be the general idea, yes. You will be escorted down to the docks, then left on your own to locate the men and bring them to us. I don't care how you do it, but they must be alive."

She sighed. Alive? It would be so much easier to kill them. "Yes, alright. Any further directions I should be aware of at this time?"

"Come back," he said, giving her an amused smirk. "Other than that, you're free to act however you will."

"Hard to deliver my quarry without returning, isn't it?" She asked, a little surprised to find that even after the recent events she still found his smile charming. That was inconvenient. She did not smile back. "I assume I'll be escorted out as evening returns, right?"

He nodded. "You have a little over eight hours. Enjoy your stay." He gave a cocky wink, and with a slight bow, left her to her devices.

She tapped her finger on the cover of her book for a moment, trying to figure out what his game was, then shook her head slightly and opened it up to begin reading again. There was no need to guess. He would reveal it eventually.

* * *

A/N

If you enjoyed this, leave us a comment so we know to keep going! (I mean we'll write it no matter what but if there's no interest might just not update this.) If you're interested in learning more about this world I have some resources that I can make available to those who care! Most of it will eventually be referenced to, if not outright explained, in the story to come.


	2. The Southerners

She passed the day away relatively easily, spending it buried in a book or listening to the gramophone in the corner of the room (a wonderful invention she still marveled at.) When evening fell she arose from her activities ready and willing to do her duty. It was the least she could do to Vincent; take away a few of his prying eyes.

Her escorts to the docks were boring company, with nothing to say and thus a very poor addition to the conversation she tried and failed to start at the beginning of their journey. The closer the carriage drew to the docks, the more pungent the air grew, until it reeked of fish and industry. She fought the urge to wrinkle her nose.

They stopped across the street from a fishermen's pub, and the taller of her two escorts nodded. "Your men are in there. We will be leaving you now, so if you get into trouble, you're on your own. You have until dawn to bring them in."

She nodded, and got out of the carriage wordlessly. It wouldn't take her that long.

She entered the pub after dodging a pickpocket and walked in to sit at the bar, very obviously out of place in her clean, bright dress, and impeccable hair. Her eyes alighted on the men drinking in the corner. Too well-dressed for this place. Dirty from travel, and long-wear, but otherwise much too high class. She recognized them. She waited for them to notice her, and ordered a glass of water from the barkeep, just to have something in front of her.

It took them about two minutes- they had obviously been drinking- but once they saw her, they moved quickly, standing and moving to the bar, sitting on either side of her. "Ms. Harrison," Samson crooned in a slow southern drawl. "Imagine seeing you here."

"Samson," she said coldly, "Smith. I thought they didn't let the likes of you out of the country, let alone out of the South. That's where we last saw each other, wasn't it? Virginia? Richmond, right?"

"When the boss attended the Southern Accords, yes," Smith said with a thin smile. "To be honest, we didn't expect to run into you so _soon_..."

She rolled her eyes slightly, just enough for them to see. "You're both morons. I'm here to save your life, or at least warn it. You've vampire hunters after you. Good ones. I advise you leave the country." She knew that they would never in a million years turn their tails and run. It was just their Southern Gentleman code of honor, their pride. She took a sip from her glass, to maintain appearances.

Samson sniffed disdainfully. "As if. Mr. Armetti sent us after you, madame. There's no worming your way out of this one."

"I _personally_ warned Mr. Armetti that if he came after me again I would end his eternal life myself," she hissed, eyes flashing momentarily, then she was composed again. "Either way, if you refuse to leave, you'll have to kill them. They're only humans, anyway. Fragile creatures."

"Yeah, and what proof have you of these hunters, ma'am?" Smith asked, leaning against the bar daintily.

She sighed, fighting the urge to roll her eyes again. "I'm required to carry proof with me, now? I heard it straight from the mouth of the devil, you fool. I pass for human during

daytime, granted it's a cloudy day," she said snippily. "I happened on them on the crossing over, fell in with them. Then you had to go and cross over yourselves. Idiots."

"We've _been_ here, madame," Smith drawled. "Working on Armetti's interests in France. Once he realized you'd jumped onto a boat he sent word. Now, pray-tell, where are these supposed ruffians?"

"In the center of the city, in the wealthier districts," she said, tapping her finger soundlessly on her glass of water. "You know I won't let you take me back, don't you? I'll kill you in a straight fight. I have desperation."

"We have numbers," Samson retorted, unimpressed. "Mr. Armetti thought that you might object, but he, too, is desperate."

"Look at it this way," she snapped, hand tight on the glass. "You bring me back to him, I _will_ kill him. Just to stop _this._ By letting me go, pretending you never saw me, you're prolonging his life, and I can make this bargain with the next unlucky sods to cross my path," she said sternly, eyes sharp.

"Now now," Samson said, reaching out to put a hand on her thigh. "Come along, dear. Mr. Armetti just wants to talk. And think about what he'll be doing to the boys back home. The _fits_ he'll be throwing... People are bound to get hurt."

She grit her teeth to stop her fangs from making an appearance, the glass cracking in her hand. "Unhand me, Samson, before I go with you willingly and tell Vincent about your wandering hand."

She turned to look at Samson, and Smith wasted no time, his hand slipping out, a small vial in hand, which he poured into the remainder of her drink. He withdrew his hand, eyeing the crack dubiously, but the glass seemed to hold for now. Samson pulled his hand back slowly. "I apologize, madame. I meant no disrespect..."

"Didn't you?" She said icily, picking up her glass and tossing back the remainder of its contents. "You always had poor manners. Especially towards the fairer sex."

He sighed. "I apologize, madame. Truly. How can we resolve this situation so that all parties walk away happy?"

"Simple. Don't attempt to return me to Vincent. Kill these vampire hunters I've fallen in with and go back to your regular duties. Claim my death," she said, shrugging lightly. "Don't be imbeciles about this."

"Your death is the _last_ thing Mr. Armetti wants to hear," he sighed. "But fine. For the moment, let us find these hunters of yours and deal with them. Then we'll decide what to tell New York."

"As if I care what Vincent wants to hear," she said scornfully, standing up from the bar and heading for the door. "I hope you know I shan't be paying for the cab."

"Of course not," Smith said, sounding a touch affronted at the idea. They stepped out into the street, and Samson flagged down a passing growler a few minutes later, opening the door for Lorna with a slight bow. "After you, ma'am."

She got in without a word, feeling slightly off and unsure why. Had it been the blood last night? Surely it would have hit before this?

Samson and Smith climbed in behind her, Samson sitting a touch too close and Smith sitting primly on the opposite bench. He slid the hatch open and looked at Harrison questioningly. "Where are we heading, madame?"

She gave them the address and sat back again, uncomfortable in a couple of different ways, skin prickling unpleasantly.

Smith relayed the address and the driver started off, the horses' hooves almost drowned out by the rumbling of wheel on cobblestone.

The ride was long and awkward, Lorna fidgeting progressively throughout. There was a fire starting under her skin, one she couldn't explain, but she knew that if she held out until the delivery of her quarry she could address it then. Before then, she would have to suffer.

Samson gave Smith an uncertain look, but the other man did not blink or otherwise show any signs of concern, just quietly observed the passing streets. It took them about twenty minutes to get to the address Lorna had given, and when the cab stopped, Smith was the first out, moving carefully, eyeing their surroundings before nodding to Samson that all seemed well.

Lorna stepped out without waiting for an invitation, restless and keen to get back to her room, to weather whatever mystery illness had befallen her.

"Lead the way, madame," Smith said, pulling a small pistol out of his jacket. Samson nodded, doing the same.

She nodded, leading them towards the large gated manor recessed from the street, eyes on the rooftops. Were they waiting in the eaves, ready to take her poor-mannered followers?

Moran was leaning in the doorway of the mansion, smoking a cigarette, and nodded to Harrison as she approached. He was obscured by the shadows, for the most part, but that did little to conceal him from the gaze of their kind. "Good to see you got back safely. Who are your friends?" The gates to the manor swung shut behind the trio.

"Samson and Smith," she said tonelessly, gesturing to them each in turn. "Colleagues from America. They're friends of my husband."

"I see. Well, a friend of Ms. Harrison's is always welcome here. Come in, come in." He opened the door, stepping inside.

The men exchanged a glance between them, but Samson nodded, and led the way forward, passing Lorna, whose face was unreadable.

Moran bowed slightly as they both entered, and caught Lorna's gaze for just a second, though his expression remained neutral. He closed the door behind the group, and bolted it. The doors to the hallway suddenly opened, and a dozen men in the network uniform stepped out, each bearing a sharpened and stained wooden stake, and a torch. "Now, gentlemen," Moran said smoothly, pulling his silver dagger out of his jacket. "You could cooperate, but I would have so much more fun if you didn't."

They didn't.

* * *

Outside, Lorna sank onto a bench, her hand pressed to the front of her bodice, fingers pulling slightly at the material. What on Earth was _wrong_ with her? She felt a deep, empty ache that was gnawing at her center. Maybe Moran would know what was wrong with her?

He exited the house a few minutes later, tucking away a knife stained with blood. There were screams behind him, but they weren't from his men and he wasn't concerned. He nodded to Lorna. "Well done. A good first step."

She nodded, distracted. His voice was oddly compelling, but she was confused. What was happening to her? _How_ was this happening? Vampires weren't susceptible to disease, not like humans.

He looked her over, and raised an eyebrow. "Do you intend to sit out here all night, or was a trip inside somewhere in your evening schedule?" he asked with more than a touch of sarcasm.

Why did she keep imagining him ripping her corset off? Lord above. "Excuse me, Mr. Moran, I'm not feeling myself," she said as steadily as she could manage, despite the heat pooling in her face and extremities.

He glanced her over again. "No. You aren't looking yourself either, I shouldn't think." He extended his arm. "Allow me to escort you to your room." It was more of an order than a request.

She stood and took his arm, only nearly avoiding shivering at the contact in the process. "I really don't know what's afflicting me, Mr. Moran. You said the blood donors are checked by doctors, yes?"

"Most rigorously," he assured her, guiding her inside. She was oddly warm. He could feel almost living levels of heat emanating from her. "And tasted for impurities before they are fed on by guests."

She nodded, though the information only proved to make her more anxious. His solid grip on her arm was sending spikes of longing through her, and she couldn't fathom why. He was devastatingly handsome, for her tastes, but normally she had better restraint than this. "Who tastes them?" She asked, in an effort to be polite.

"Lower level peons chosen for the task. They eat plenty that way, so it isn't hard to find volunteers." He walked to the staircase and started downward, though slowly. The woman next to him seemed to have the sudden inclination toward unsteadiness, and as entertaining as it would be to watch her bounce down the stairs, he didn't feel like damaging what could be an influential bargaining chip in their dealings with New York.

She made a thoughtful sound, relieved to see they were nearing her room, which is about where she lost control of her tongue. "Mr. Moran, excuse me, but I keep imagining you tearing off my bodice, and if you indulge my fantasy, I _promise,_ it will be very worth your while."

His steps faltered just slightly, and he glanced at her, before continuing on toward her room. "You aren't well, Ms. Harrison."

She stopped in her tracks, hand clutching his arm, simple _need_ on her face. "I implore you, sir, _please..."_ Now that she'd said it aloud she was desperate for it, for something to ease the itch that had crawled beneath her skin, the heat at her core. Some part of her knew this was wildly wrong, that she shouldn't be trying to have relations with a man she didn't trust, but _god,_ did she want it.

He looked at her for a long moment, saw her pupils blown wide, and then, to his surprise, the barest hint of a pulse flickering by her throat. _Interesting_... "Did you get a bite to eat while you were out, madame?" he asked, reaching out to open the door to her room and guiding her through.

"Not a drop, why do you ask?" She replied, eyes still on him, hurried by her body's insistence, hardly aware of her surroundings.

"Because you have a pulse," he said calmly, reaching out to press his fingers to it, smirking.

She felt a shiver crawl up her spine at his touch, and then felt her face flush. "So I do," she said, raising a hand to her cheek, confused.

He closed her door behind them both. If she wanted to fuck him, he had no problems with that. Propriety had never been his forte. "Well, then. Seeing as you did ask, I suppose I could help you out of your many layers. You can't be comfortable."

She grinned in success, her heart stuttering oddly in her chest, and she took a step backwards towards her bed, pretending to have some measure of coyness in her. "Believe me, sir, I've never been _less_ comfortable. You'll be doing me quite a favor."

He smiled and reached out to undo the first few buttons of her dress, fingers moving easily along the fabric.

She pulled off her gloves and then reached out to start helping him out of his waistcoat, eager to see his body underneath.

He opened the top of her dress and pushed it off of her shoulders with a smile, his hands finding her bare shoulders under her various layers and smoothing over her skin.

His touch felt so _good,_ better than it should have, and she pushed his vest off his shoulder and started on his shirt, fingers flying through the motions until she bared his chest, and she stepped forward and kissed him.

Her lips were oddly warm against his, almost as hot as a human's would be, but he didn't mind. He had enjoyed himself with humans and their kind alike, so it made no difference to him. He slid his hands downward and started to unlace her bodice, nimble fingers only pausing for a moment at the tight knots that secured it, loosing them easily.

She kissed him harder, nipping lightly at his lips in a way she hadn't worked up the courage for for years with Vincent, the fire under her skin driving her into frenzy. She slid her fingers into his beltline.

If he was surprised by her forwardness, he didn't show it. "Want a taste?" he asked with a grin, pulling her bodice loose and then unlacing it completely, dropping it to the side. "You were so eager earlier..."

"Don't tempt me, Mr. Moran," she breathed, undoing his belt, "I've already propositioned you in public. What will be next?"

"Take it," he said with a smirk. "I want to see what my blood looks like on your tongue..." He reached to push her skirts down over her various petticoats.

She let his belt drop to the floor, her heart pounding in her ears. "You can reciprocate, should you wish," she grinned, and with a click of her fangs bit into the side of his throat, moaning as the blood spread across her tongue.

"Mmm... I'll pass. I'd rather watch you enjoy it for the first time." He took a sharp breath out of instinct as she bit his neck, though the pain was minimal. Jim drank off of him every once in a while. He was used to it.

She drew back after a few good swallows, and accidentally tore the button off his trousers, which led her to step back, raising her hands a little. "Perhaps you should finish. And this isn't my first time, Mr. Moran. I was, for all intents and purposes, married."

"I don't mean this," he said with a laugh as he removed his clothes. "I mean this." He tapped his neck where blood was oozing. "Or have you drunk before?"

"Vincent is one of us; of course I've sipped from him," she smirked, slipping out of her skirts and corset cover, leaving her in drawers and the corset itself, and turning around, making her corset strings available. "Release me, darling, would you?"

"Really? Interesting. The way you balked when I cut myself earlier I would have pegged you for clean." He walked up behind her to start unlacing her.

"I don't _know_ you, Mr. Moran, of course I balked," she said simply, letting the corset fall off her body as he unlaced it. "Now it hardly matters, does it?"

He reached out to slide fingers down her spine. "I suppose it doesn't," he agreed, his fingers cool against her warmer skin.

She shivered tangibly this time, already feeling the effects of his blood; the light-headed giddiness, the increase in attraction. She turned and placed a hand on his bare chest, eyes devouring every inch of him. It had been a very long time since she had had relations with anyone other than Vince, and so far she was loving the change. She liked her men excessively tall, and Vince had been a little short of that, not to mention a sight less muscular. She met his eyes, and smiled. "Do take me to bed, won't you Mr. Moran?"

"You make the most appealing suggestions, Ms. Harrison," he agreed with a smile, reaching out to grab her waist and lift her, carrying her over to lay her out on the bed, before he leaned down to kiss her again.

She hitched a leg around his waist, grinding up against him in the way proper women weren't supposed to do, her hand sliding into his hair as she returned his kiss, hungry for more.

He grinned as she moved against him. Oh good, she wasn't one of the ones caught up in what she was _supposed_ to do. Not that he was surprised. From what he'd heard Armetti wasn't terribly fond of what _should_ be done, he wasn't surprised the man's wife wasn't of that persuasion. He ground down right back, then pulled away to remove his shoes and trousers.

She groaned against his lips, trying to get some more friction out of him, and then changed into a noise of complaint as he pulled away. Still, she took advantage of the opportunity and finished disrobing.

He looked down over her, and let out a low whistle. "I can see why Armetti's so insistent," he chuckled, tossing his pants aside and kneeling back on the bed, naked and proud. "I would be too."

"Flatterer," she smirked, taking him in and being similarly pleased. He was beautiful in a dangerous sort of way, all sharp lines and tough muscle and straight teeth, and _Lord,_ if he'd been her first, she would have been in for a rude awakening. "If you had been an option, you would have been my first choice. You're gorgeous, Mr. Moran."

He grinned, leaning down to nip beneath her jaw, playfully- no force, no fangs. His hands found the bed on either side of her, a subtle bid to keep her beneath him. "I'll wait to see how silvered your tongue is before I take that to heart."

She had always enjoyed being bitten. It was a shameful trait for a creature of the night like them, but it was a trait from her human life that she'd never shrugged off. She wished he would sink in all the way, but he'd already passed on that front, and she wouldn't ask him to do something so taboo. "Oh, I'm incapable of speaking lies at this point, sir, believe me," she chuckled, lifting a hand off the bed to trail down his flank, over his waist and the side of his arse.

"I find that trust is as deadly as a stake in this line of work," he said with a grin. "But none the less..." His own hand was wandering, dipping between her thighs to explore what he found there.

She groaned, used to but not expecting foreplay, biting her lip as she traced patterns on his skin. "Unsurprising. Hopefully you can accept that these simple lines are truthful."

"It doesn't much matter, does it?" he asked with a smile, sliding his fingers into her. He knew plenty of men who preferred to jump straight to the main event, but he liked toying with his conquests a bit first.

She breathed in sharply, grabbing onto his shoulder with a tight grip. "No, it really doesn't," she chuckled breathlessly.

He grinned as she tightened reflexively around his fingers, curling them slowly. "I'm glad to hear we are in agreement."

She bit her lip, shifting her hips impatiently, the hand wandering his side making its way to his manhood, determined that he not be the only one impatient, and skimmed across his skin, watching his face for changes in expression.

He closed his eyes as her warm fingers touched him, and he smiled a bit. "Eager, are we? Silly question, come to think of it. You practically begged me to come in here..." He grinned, leaning down to kiss her bared throat again.

"I can't explain what's come over me, honestly, I don't usually behave this way," she murmured, eyes fluttering shut. "All I know is I _want_ you."

"Well, if you insist," he breathed, removing his fingers and shifting between her legs, lining up and entering her in one smooth motion.

She groaned, back arching off the bed a little, her leg hitched around his hip. " _Fuck,"_ she let out in a breath, a swear she usually didn't indulge in. "Good god, you feel good."

He braced himself as she arched up against him, and smiled a little, letting her guide movement for the moment. "Happy to please."

"Believe me, I've gathered," she chuckled, rolling her hips up against his, and leaning up to capture his lips again, the hand on his bicep sliding into his hair.

Once she started moving again he matched her, muscles in his arms bunching as he held himself up over her. He was bulky for a vampire. Their kind tended toward slim strength, but he had little natural strength granted to him compared to others of their kind, so he made up for it the old fashioned way, and now he was more than an equal match.

She kissed him hard, hard enough and with enough teeth that she would have hurt a normal man, fingers tightening in his hair as he started a rhythm. She had pushed the edges of Vincent's limits, once or twice, when she'd been in a right bloodlust.

She surged against him with surprising force, and he grinned. He had gambled correctly, bedding this one. She was a wild, unbroken spirit, and he was looking forward to seeing what she could do. He rammed a knee up beneath her, lifting her hips off of the bed and tighter against him, tugging against her grip in his hair.

She gasped at the change in angle, dragging her nails down his shoulder blade, and then laughed slightly, nipping at his lower lip. "You've no idea what a relief it is to me that you're silent, Mr. Moran," she chuckled breathlessly. "I normally know too much about my lovers by this point."

He didn't know what that meant, and he didn't really care at the moment. He arched under her biting nails, pleased by the sharp sting, and growled through grit teeth, biting her shoulder in response.

She shuddered, pleased to find that he was receptive to her unrefined wishes. She had never liked being treated like a china doll, but it was difficult to articulate such a thing during the heat of the moment, or, truthfully, any time, and it was easiest to convey it with her nails and teeth.

He broke her skin without really meaning to, and the warm taste of her blood on his tongue just spurred him on. He shifted a hand to grip her ass, pulling her against him, ignoring his previous stance on not drinking as his tongue lathed the break on her shoulder.

Had she been less consumed by the moment, she would have been surprised, but as it was she was dizzy with blood and sex, and he was giving it to her just the way she liked it without any direction, and she was eager to repay the favor any way she could, kissing a line down his throat, nails dragging at his scalp and over the curve of his ass.

Her blood was delicious, and tinged just slightly with his own flavor. He felt a thrill at the reminder of his power over her, the bandaged wound on his forearm burning pleasantly as he moved. The intoxicating effects of the blood started almost immediately, and he was careful not to drink too much. He pulled away, lips stained red, tongue darting out to catch a stray drop. He was getting close, his body warming and tensing, and he let himself go a little, rough and hungry.

She could tell he was reaching his end, and writhed under him with more fervor, determined not to be left behind in the dust, trying to lose herself fully.

He took in a sharp gasp of air as she moved with determination, concentrating on holding out to give her a few more seconds to catch up, before he let out a sharp cry of pleasure, and came hard.

Had it not been for the aphrodisiac in her system she might not have made it, but as it was she came with a gasp, relieved to have some sense of satisfaction.

He pulled away slowly, eyeing her to ensure she'd found her release. He'd never been one to lose the potential of a good fuck just because he was lazy. If he wanted options, he had to be good. She seemed satisfied, however, and he shifted to lay beside her, relaxing.

She was still buzzed from his blood, and she stayed relaxed next to him, pleased to find that even now she couldn't hear his thoughts. Blessed silence. Even Vincent she'd been able to hear, every once in a while, with his training. "You'll be pleased to hear I can't read your thoughts, even now."

"I'm glad, I suppose?" he asked, glancing at her. "Is that one of your gifts?"

She nodded a little, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Yes. It's only been slightly useful, and very unfortunate."

"How does it work?" he asked, glancing over at her, gaining a touch of interest. It was always useful to know what his pets could do.

"Sometimes, it only takes a touch, for the particularly weak-willed. Others, a kiss. Some, sex itself. Even fewer, the period afterwards. Everyone is at their mentally weakest then, exhausted by their exertions as they are. Someday, far in the future, I might be strong enough to read at just a touch for every person, but for now, I'm doomed to hear the least interesting thoughts mankind has to offer. Most of the people I cannot hear are like us. It gives me a vast preference for our kind," she sighed, closing her eyes.

He glanced at her with a smirk. "Well, I'm glad to find I have the mental constitution required to provide silence." He sat up, and then stood, going to gather his clothes and starting to dress. "Now, if you will excuse me, I will return to my duties."

"Of course. Thank you for your time, Mr. Moran," she nodded, a hint of a smirk on her lips.

"You're certainly welcome," he said with a smirk, doing up his waistcoat. "Enjoy your day, Ms. Harrison." With that he bowed, and left her rooms.

* * *

A/N

Review if you like it!


	3. Fur-Traders

Samson woke up in a dim room splattered with stains that by the smell of them had been produced by multiple bodies, at differing times. Smith was unconscious next to him, battered beyond belief, his face swollen, his right leg missing. A wound that would have killed a human. No vampire hunters would have struck as hard as the foes they had faced. So they had wandered into Moriarty's territory; or, more likely, right into his trap.

"It's always interesting, watching the brain reform," Moran said casually from where he was leaning against the far wall of the cell, a sharpened spike in hand. "The skull denting back out... You should thank me that we fed you. Otherwise you would have been months healing."

His gaze snapped over, fangs extending of their own accord. "You're him, aren't you? His right hand man?"

He smiled, his own fangs bared, but for an entirely different reason. "Oh, excellent. I was worried I would have to explain the gravity of your situation to you, but it seems you have come to the correct answers all on your own." He reached into his coat, drawing the silver dagger and starting to flip it idly between his fingers. "Tell me, Mister... Samson, was it? What are you doing on our territory?"

"Looking for Mr. Armetti's wayward wife," he said, bitterly, sitting up further with the sound of skin brushing a crusty floor. "She brought us to you. I reckon she's taken advantage of your hospitality, am I right? I hope the bitch felt sickly, at the least."

"And what do you mean by that?" Moran asked casually, still flicking the knife through his fingers, stance relaxed.

Samson gave a demented smile, compounded by the blood on his face and the darkness shrouding him. "Smith and I slipped her a little somethin' to help loosen her up, you see? I'm surprised no one noticed. The substance is liable to make moral women forget God himself."

Well, that certainly cleared up a few nagging questions. "Interesting. Thank you very much for that information, Mister Samson. For your cooperation, you will be rewarded with a delay in my shoving this knife under your fingernails." He slid the dagger back into its sheath, removing his gloves and tucking them into his pocket. "When Mister Smith awakes, please pass on the following offer. The two of you will tell me everything you know about Mister Armetti's operations, or I will cut out a section of your intestine once a week for the remainder of your eternal life, and you will never feel fresh air again."

Had he been able to pale, he would have, and instead he just nodded, the amusement sliding off his face like a bad paper mask. "I'll pass it on, sir."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said with a smile, turning for the cell door. He returned his gloves- the door was coated in silver leaf- and opened it, turning to close and lock it behind him. Then he went to find Ms. Harrison.

* * *

Lorna was reading a Dickens serial in the paper, trying not to think. She was consumed with regrets from the previous day, a pressing question repeating itself constantly in her head. _Why did I DO that?_ Moran was an attractive man, and her type exactly, but she barely knew the man, had nothing to gain from reading his mind. She hadn't _decided_ to fuck him - she'd been driven to by forces outside her control. She just couldn't fathom _what._ She'd never heard of a vampire being able to hypnotize others of their kind, or anything similar, but what else could have happened?

Moran knocked on the door, and waited for a response, straightening his jacket as he does so.

"You may enter," she called, lifting her eyes from the newspaper and towards the door. A welcome distraction.

Moran opened the door, stepping inside and bowing just slightly. "Miss Harrison, I think perhaps you should accompany me to the infirmary."

She stiffened slightly at the sight of him, an intensely awkward feeling rising up in her at the sight of him. "Ah... The infirmary? I feel quite fine, Mr. Moran, thank you."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said with a small smile. "But Misters Samson and Smith just admitted to putting something in your drink last evening, which I believe may have been responsible for certain aspects of your behavior. You're my charge. It's my responsibility to ensure that Mr. Moriarty loses none of his assets."

She took a deep breath, eyes shutting, and ran a hand down her face. "And _there_ it is. Good lord. The fact that they would _risk_ such a thing is confounding, but the implications are less than savory," she sighed, opening her eyes and standing, adjusting her skirts. "Alright, lead the way, then. I'll see this embarrassment over with as quickly as possible."

He nodded, offering her his arm and waiting for her to take it before heading for the door and the stairway.

She walked with him in silence, unsure what to say. What they had done had been a strange experience for her; not wholly pleasant or unpleasant, and out of her control. While she was horrified that Smith and Samson had attempted such a thing, she was glad that at least Moran had been the one to benefit. He, at least, had been kind to her. She couldn't say if the same could be said about her would-be assaulters.

He remained taciturn as he guided her to the infirmary, eyes for the most part ahead, acting relaxed, as though nothing had ever passed between them. He relinquished her arm when they arrived, approaching to speak quietly to the staff nurse, who nodded and rose. "This way, Miss Harrison."

She took a tight breath and nodded, following them with something approaching apprehension. The smell of the place, sharp and brittle in her nose, was bringing her back to places she would rather not return to. Bad memories of the war.

They sat her in a private room on her own, and it was a few minutes before a nurse returned, holding a syringe. "We'll need to draw blood for testing, madame," she said politely.

"Test? How?" She asked, borderline suspiciously, her hands clasped together tightly in her lap, just so she would avoid breaking the arms of her chair. She hated being in this place; she could swear she could hear that infernal _sawing_ sound.

"For any remnants of the chemical they gave to you, madame," the nurse explained politely, quite calm. "We wish to ensure it will not do you any further harm."

"Not why, _how,"_ she repeated, unmoving, eyes sharp. "I'm not in the habit of letting my blood travel away from me in vials. Working here, you must have an idea why."

The nurse looked slightly taken aback, but then straightened, eyes narrowing. "Madame, everyone here is screened by Colonel Moran himself. We have the highest security requirements imaginable. Colonel Moran has ordered your blood tested. If you wish to lodge a complaint, I can request his presence."

She let out an irritated breath, the tension in her chest building tighter. "I'm asking how you are going to test my blood. How can you read anything from it?"

The woman's expression flattened. "I am afraid that that is not for me to say, madame," she said calmly. "As I said, our security is quite exacting."

She grit her teeth, looking away for a second as she considered the risks to allowing this woman to draw her blood. But something told her that if she resisted Moran would become involved, and she was still trying to avoid looking too closely at him. After a moment she stuck her arm out, pushing her sleeve up her arm. At least she'd learned something about him - he was a Colonel. She tucked that information away for later.

She stepped forward then, drawing the blood with quick, professional movements, and bandaging the mark. "There. That was simple." She capped the syringe and headed for the door. "We'll bring your results back shortly."

She nodded sharply, drawing her arm back into her lap, her posture as rigid as a tree. Any second, she was expecting screams. The smell only grew worse, stronger, the longer she was here.

The nurse looked her over as she was turning to leave, and frowned. "Are you alright, madame?" She was used to patients having an adverse reaction to having their blood drawn.

She didn't react for a moment, staring off into nothing, her face tight, but impassive. "I was in America, during The Late Unpleasantness. The War of the Rebellion. That's the last time I was in a hospital."

The woman's eyes tightened sympathetically, and she nodded a little. "I'm sorry. We'll make this quick." She left at a smart pace for the back rooms.

She stayed put, her breathing calm and measured. Vampires didn't need to breathe, not like every other being on the planet, but many of them found it comforting. A way to calm themselves, a familiar crutch that had the added benefit of making them appear more lifelike to the inspecting eye. It was something to do, to keep her mind off the worst images that her brain kept trying to stir up out of the depths.

It was about half an hour later that the nurse returned. "We have tested your blood in every way that we can, and it seems clean," she said calmly. "Our methods are quite extensive, there is no reason for concern. You may go."

She nodded, rising quickly and making for the door. She didn't want to remain in this place a second longer than necessary. Didn't want to have to relive the piles of bloody limbs, the stench of black flesh, the surgeon with the milky white eyes and the bonesaw, his _voice_ in her ear...

Moran was nowhere to be seen, but a burly young man was there to escort her back to her rooms. He was polite, but taciturn, until he dropped her off. "Colonel Moran asked me to inform you that you should be ready for a meeting at four this morning, ma'am. He will have clothing sent."

She nodded. "Thank you. I appreciate it." She said softly, then shut the door behind her, closing her eyes as she leaned against the door. Finally, the smell was beginning to leave her nose.

* * *

Moran arrived at ten of four that morning, rapping lightly on the door. He had had someone from costuming come up over an hour ago, so he expected that she was ready by now. If she wasn't, she didn't have much choice in the matter. One didn't keep James waiting.

She was waiting, in a crimson red dress, her hair pulled back in the signature round bun, her hands gloved in black velvet. She opened the door with an expressionless face. "Mr. Moran. I didn't expect you to be the one to accompany me to this meeting after earlier."

He raised an eyebrow, offering her his arm. "After earlier?" he inquired, guiding her down the hall.

"You disappeared in the infirmary and left a very quiet man behind you to take care of me. Luckily he was very polite, otherwise I'd be quite upset with you," she said, giving him an arch look, though it came with a smirk. She was getting over her embarrassment. She took his arm. "Not to mention our rendezvous."

"Perhaps it has failed to catch your notice, Ms. Harrison," he said dryly, "But I do have a great many other tasks which require my attention. Your escort to your rooms does not fall at the top of the list, shocking as that may seem." He ignored the comment about the night prior.

She chuckled. "Yes, I know. I was making a jest. I found out from the nurse you're a Colonel. Colonels never have a lot of leisure time."

He just nodded in agreement at that, leading her down a flight of stairs. "It is rare." He walked in silence for a few minutes, turning unerringly through a labyrinth of identical stone tunnels. "You will be meeting with Mr. Moriarty. I advise respect."

She nodded slightly. "I sensed that when we first met, yes. Is there anything else I should be aware of?'

He chuckled. "No. He will make everything else clear as he wishes it."

She sighed, but chuckled a little. "Yes, I know the type. I'm sure I'll regret saying that, too."

"Believe me, you do not know the type," he shot back, amused. He led her down one more flight of steps, through familiar rooms, and into the spider-laced hallways of before. Finally he paused, knocking on a dark door adorned only with one tiny jeweled black widow at eye height.

The door was opened a moment later by a man dressed in a simple suit, easily recognizable as the help, and he dipped his head deferentially at the sight of them, stepping back to reveal the office beyond. "Come in," came James' voice, though he could not be readily seen, his desk empty.

They stepped inside and the attendant stepped out, shutting the door behind him. Moran caught sight of James and bowed slightly. "Miss Harrison, as we discussed, sir."

James looked up from the book in his hands, standing in front of a grand old book shelf, filled with tomes of seemingly random languages. Lorna didn't doubt that he could read them all. She didn't know how old he was, but she knew it was not an insignificant number, and considering the number of languages she'd learned in her short time as an immortal, he was probably leaps and bounds ahead of her. His expression didn't change as he saw them a but he did drop the book onto the table by his side and turn to face them, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. "Indeed. I have an assignment for Ms. Harrison, as well as... _News."_

"What sort of news, sir?" Moran asked, interested. James was a man with a flair for the dramatic, but the sort who sought out the dramatic rather than fake it. This was bound to be good.

He gave a sly smile, walking over to his desk and crouching to pull open the largest drawer, and rising again with his hands full of... fur. Across his arms lay a supple pelt that had once belonged to a wolf. His eyes were locked onto Lorna, who was staring at the fur in his arms, her lips parted in shock. "I assume you recognize this? Ms. _Harrison_ , you've been holding _out_ on us," he hummed. A second passed, and then Lorna flew at him.

Moran had started moving before she did, piecing the situation together quickly. He got between her and Jim, silver knife flashing in the light, the wooden hilt cool in his hand.

She stopped short, her breath short, a sense of urgency building in her chest. "Give it back," she said tightly, hands curled into fists at her sides, half hidden by her skirts. "Give it _back._ It's not yours. This is a _violation."_

James laughed, clearly pleased by her reaction. "Now now... be polite, darling. I could always gift it to Master Armetti instead, see what he makes of such a _gift_..."

Her hands were fisted shut so tightly that she was in danger of breaking her just-tougher-than-human skin, and she stared with desperate eyes for a few more seconds before wrenching her gaze away from the fur to look at his face. "What do you want? Not money, obviously, not with this place around us, so what is it? I can't grant you power, not unless Vincent was dead and I inherited his holdings - so what is it? Blood? Sex? _What is it_?"

Jim put the pelt casually back into the drawer, and there was the catch of a lock as he closed it. "I want _you_ , my dear. Very simply. Your abilities interest me. I want to see what you can do."

She shut her eyes, taking in a deep breath, trying to calm herself. It had almost no effect. "You already have me, good sir. I can't leave the sphere of your protection, remember? My _husband_ might find me."

He is still smiling, the consistency of the expression on his face unnerving. "I think you and I both know that you would bolt at a moment's chance, if it arose, my dear," he croons. "This way I have a little more of a guarantee that you will do _precisely_ what I require."

She wanted to disagree, that no, she wouldn't run, but honestly, given a chance at freedom, _real_ freedom for the first time in her short life, who knew what she would choose. "When will I get it back?"

His eyes sparked. "Oh, I think that will depend very much on how you prove yourself," he sighed, almost wistfully. Then his expression sharpened. "Which brings me to my next point. I am having a gathering. An open house, if you will, to introduce a few more patrons to the fold. In recent months it has become clear to me that _someone_ is shuttling some of our new guests away from all we have to offer and off to a little side business, treating with demons. Find out who."

She unclenched her hands, though she very much wanted to keep them clenched. "Are they human or are they like us? Your patrons. I can read humans far more reliably."

"A mix," he explained, sitting back into his chair and raking his gaze over her. "You will do fine, I'm certain. Disappointing me is ill-advised. Now go." He waved her out, and Moran nodded a little, motioning for her to head for the door.

She only managed to leave the room through sheer force of will, inexplicably drawn to the locked drawer under the bookshelf. This was what all shifters were afraid of. The unending desire to become something else, to remain in that form until forced out of it by need or circumstance. More than one person had been lost to the skins. Now that she was one of the souls bound to eventually lose human form entirely, some time in her immortal life, she couldn't imagine what she had been so afraid of. Nothing felt better than the pelt. But getting her dietary needs in that form was near impossible, not in the quantity that vampires needed, so she chose the option that would extend her life.

She walked out of Moriarty's office in a cold state, every fiber of her buzzing with furious energy. She'd escaped the clutches of an overprotective controller to a indifferent one. She didn't know which was worse.

Moran followed on her heels. He hadn't known what Jim had planned, but he hadn't been disappointed. "I'll escort you to your rooms," he said calmly.

"I can find it on my own, thank you," she said coldly, not deigning to look back at him. "You know I won't go anywhere I'm not supposed to after that threat."

He smirked just a little. "I apologize, Ms. Harrison. It appears I made that sound like an option." He offered her his arm.

She halted abruptly, baring her fangs, eyes dark and furious. "Touch me and temporarily lose the arm, _sir._ Now is not the time to test my patience."

He remained unphased. "Nor now, mine, madame," he said, voice smooth. His eyes were dark and cold.

"You may escort me to my rooms, but I could not _bear_ your touch, please believe me," she hissed, fingers clenched tightly in her skirts. She was in danger of ripping the fabric. "Something more dear to me than my life has just been held hostage in front of me, and while I can't expect you to _ever_ comprehend it, read my face and understand how _very_ close I am to complete savagery. Do not push me."

"I understand," was all he said, but he dropped his arm, and motioned for her to proceed him down the hall.

She turned without another word and continued onward, still mentally bristling. They could never understand what they were keeping from her: the truest form of freedom, the only thing in the world that could release her from obligations and tight dresses and the way men thought she needed a firm hand of guidance. Nobody restrained a she-wolf.

He followed a step behind. Despite her assurances, he _could_ see that she was just on the verge of desperation. He had seen desperation, in the battles he had fought. It made people do stupid things. Last stands involving bullets and teeth and little by the way of strategy. He didn't want Jim threatened by a half-brained, unpredictable scheme that was the last act of a desperate individual.

The way back felt longer than usual, but it wasn't exactly a surprise. The back of her neck prickled where he was behind her. They reached her quarters without further incident however, and she opened her (unlockable) door and walked in to slam it behind her, in a very unladylike fashion.

He let her go, nodding to his men guarding the door, and left. Let her sulk.

* * *

A/N

If you like what you read consider leaving a comment! Let us know if you want to get access to the lore - I'll link it on a chapter somewhere :)


	4. A Familiar Bargain

It was another day and night before there was an event that let her do the work Moriarty had assigned her. The first dress they sent her was reserved, though beautiful; fit for a guest of the soiree. But that wasn't good enough. If she wanted to read these people, she would need to become closer to them than was polite for a lady. She would need to be less than a lady to be able to touch them, to kiss them, to have her hands on their bare skin. So she kept the dress and sent the messenger back, with the news that she would need to be outfitted like a lady of the night.

The request was run by Moran as he was in the middle of security preparations, and he waved it off without much thought, telling them to dress her however she damn well pleased.

She called for an escort to the gathering the night of the gathering, dressed in a dress that exposed a not insignificant amount of her leg, her gloves see-through black lace, her corset partially bared by her low-cut dress. It was the most scandalous thing she'd ever worn, and, had she been human, she would have lit up with blushing at the sight of it.

The men who arrived barely blinked at her attire, all too familiar with seeing the escorts that Mr. Moriarty kept on retainer. They led her down to the party, but stopped at the side entrance. "It wouldn't do for us to escort you in, ma'am," one said politely. "Would seem out of place for a courtesan."

She inclined her head. "Understood. Thank you, gentlemen. I'll take it from here."

Without further ado she entered the room, slipping in more than making an entrance. Immediately her eyes landed on Moran; he was the tallest person in the room, and while he wasn't obviously trying to make an imposing figure, it was hard for him not to. Or maybe, it was simply that her eyes were just unnaturally drawn to him. She _had_ tasted his blood. That was known to cause the occasional infatuation. She looked away from him, eyes roaming the rest of the room. Moriarty didn't immediately jump out at her, but it was possible she was simply missing him. But there were plenty of targets to be had. She slipped through a small throng of people with a bashful smile and took a place next to who she assumed was the madame of the rest of the escorts in the room, and smiled slightly. "How do you do, madame?" she started, softly enough for only the woman to hear, "I'd appreciate a little help this evening; a courtesy for Mr. M."

The woman looked her up and down, and nodded just slightly. "He informed me that you would be here." She reached out, then, smoothly adjusting Lorna's skirt to show a little more leg, and straightening the line of her corset. "Well then, go on. None of my girls will get in your way. Let me know if you need anything."

"Thank you," she said, a tad distractedly, already looking away again, deciding who to make a move on first. She sighed, quietly. This was going to be a taxing night.

The evening's crowd was already milling about, and no small number of eyes had found her, following her progress around the room. A young man- with reddish hair that was unfortunate for his complexion, but otherwise good looks- approached her with a grin. "My my my... They certainly haven't skimped, have they?"

She turned to face him, a smile spreading across her face, partially unbidden; she hadn't needed to make a move first. A nice surprise. "No, they certainly haven't. I'm Yvette. And _you_ have the best taste of the entire room. Congratulations."

"Oh, not the best taste, I don't think," he says chuckling. "Only the quickest draw." True to his words, several other men- who had been wandering their direction, turned away with a mildly put out expression. He reached out to take her hand, kissing it. "Yvette. Charmed. Clarence, I'm called here."

She smirked, nodding her head in response to his greeting. She could feel energy humming under his skin from even beneath his glove. He wanted her, and because of that he would be an incredibly easy read. "Lovely to meet you, Clarence. What brings to to these gatherings? The company, or the ambiance?"

"The ambiance of the company," he retorted smoothly, looking her up and down unabashedly. "Might I convince you to a dance?"

She smiled, squeezing his hand slightly. "You might. I'll let you lead, shall I?" She asked, cheekily, smirking as she turned for the dance floor.

"Unless you'd rather," he retorted playfully, stepping onto the floor with no little grace, though he held her far closer than propriety usually dictated, clearly at ease.

Had they been in another space, she would have been able to pick up the sound of the people standing along the wall whispering amongst themselves at the impropriety unfolding in front of them, but as it was, she felt and heard only hunger. More than one of the gentlemen standing on the sidelines was wishing out loud to his comrades that the impropriety would go a little farther while in their gaze. They'd stepped easily into the dance, and she looked up at him through her lashes, a promising smile on her face. "Isn't this where a woman is supposed to ask what her dancing partner does for a living?" She asked, as they made a revolution around the floor, though her smirk made it clear she wasn't serious. "How about I ask something a little more acceptable; how did you hear about Mr. M's gatherings?"

"It has to do with my work, in fact," he chuckled. "I rubbed elbows with some of the gentlemen here, and one day there was a calling card on my desk." He let her spin out and back. "Next thing I knew I was here, mingling with the greats. And some decent business men, as well." He winked and slid his hand lower below her waist.

She didn't bother pretending an embarrassed smile; he didn't feel like the type to balk because she was too bold. Her thumb caressed over his shoulder once, just a small movement. She wished he didn't have his gloves on; she needed skin contact to read him properly, and reading every man tonight after long conversations wasn't ideal.

She steeled herself. No, it wasn't ideal, but it was her job. "Well, I'm pleased to hear you've gotten more benefits out of this soirees than little old me. Have the other girls been suiting your tastes, as well?"

"None nearly so much as you," he said with a calm smile, eyes locked on hers. "Tell me, what does it take for a man to leave the party with you on his arm?"

She smirked, dipping her head slightly. "For you? Clarence, all you had to do was ask."

He laughed. "Somehow I don't think your madame would agree... but I like your candor." He pulled her closer as the song quickened, his rough cheek brushing against hers.

"My madame knows that Mr. M pays our fees; anything you've been paying the girls who work here are simply tips for their _hard_ work," she purred, trying not to inhale more than needed to speak. She could see his pulse from her current position, and it was hard for her to resist being this close to her prey. She was a young vampire, and she only restrained herself when she had to.

He laughed as the song ended. "Your honesty is refreshing," he said softly in to kiss her neck. "I'm going to enjoy the party for a bit, but do a poor besotted man a favor and don't wander too far?"

 _Dear God, she's exquisite, just like-_ the flash of his mind was gone as soon as the skin contact was, and she stepped away as he did, smiling. "I don't think you'll lose sight of me, even should I hide behind the madame."

He winked, and bowed, backing away and then turning to leave the dance floor.

* * *

Moran watched the exchange as he surveyed the party from the balcony. He barely recognized Harrison in the getup, the bared skin distracting him and bringing to mind the taste of her blood- sweet with age and fermentation, ripened beautifully.

A few dances and some 'accidental' skin contact later, she was certain there was something going on. James had been right. Of course he had. Well, all the better for her effort to retrieve her second skin. All that was left now was to have a firm, solid lead on the competitor.

Moran watched as she swirled through patrons, and eventually walked over to her, tapping her shoulder once she stepped away from her latest quarry. "A dance?" he asked with a crooked smile.

She thought about saying no for a split second before she smiled and nodded, aware that if she gave him the cold shoulder nothing good could come of it. "Of course," she said, turning away from her previous partner with a dip of her head. He made himself scarce quickly at the sight of the new competition. "I haven't seen very much of you this evening."

"I've been busy," he said dryly, reaching out to take her waist as the song started up. "Security at these soirees is a nightmare."

She settled back into dancing position and then let him lead as the music began. "Mr. Moriarty was correct; there's something going on tonight. Haven't gotten any details yet, unfortunately for us," she said softly, under the sound of the instruments. "And my name is Yvette, tonight, should anyone ask."

"No reason I would know your name," he said dryly. "You're one of a hundred whores to wall through Mr. Moriarty's doors just this year. I taste the merchandise, I don't get to know it." His smile was cruel, but he could _smell_ her, so close, and he couldn't help the way his mouth watered, teeth aching to break free, break skin... He hadn't eaten in too long. He would tonight. He was clearly hungry.

"You would dance with a woman in semi-polite company without knowing her name? Mr. _Moran,_ how scandalous," she chided, voice carrying inflection that her face did not. She couldn't care less how he treated his conquests. She only cared how he treated her, and right now, he was holding hostage a very important part of herself. "I suggest altering your expression; people are beginning to sense the wolf in their midst," she added, her eyes skipping to the side for a moment at a trio of gentlemen watching them over glasses of wine.

"As well they should," he said, flashing her a tight-lipped smirk. He could feel his fangs cresting and didn't deign to flash them. "I am the chief of security. Let them sense danger, if not why."

They made another revolution on the dance floor, and she shifted out of forced habit to graze the sliver exposed skin between his glove and sleeve, and was inadvertently rewarded with blessed, dark silence. She almost audibly sighed, the headache that had been building for the past hour fading slightly. That was interesting. New. Did it have something to do with the blood she'd imbibed from him? He was the first vampire of a different bloodline she'd ever fed from. She forced herself to smile, because the silence had stretched to almost uncomfortable limits. "And is there a reason you asked for a dance? Are you looking for what the rest of these men are looking for?"

The _no_ made it all the way to his tongue before it lost its energy and died out, just a breath away from crossing his teeth. Instead, he shrugged. "If you're going to make yourself merchandise, I'm going to browse."

She gave him a sharp sort of smile, an eyebrow raising. "And where on Earth did you get the impression that I had _time_ for you tonight, Mr. Moran? I'm in the middle of a quest given to me by our employer, and the longer I spend with you the longer it takes me to reach my ultimate reward. So, tell me; what could you possibly do to warrant such a frivolous expenditure of my energy?"

He laughed. "I _am_ your employer, Ms. Harrison. It isn't my job to make it easier to serve our mutual acquaintance for you. You can please me and him all at once, I suspect, if you try hard enough." He slid his glove over the heel of his palm subtly, pressing the bared skin to the exposed small of her back. "Besides. You should rule me out."

Again, that blissful silence, though she refused to let herself relax into his touch. The smile faded off her face, her eyes narrowing slightly, assessing him. "Are you doing that on purpose?" She blurted out, feeling so forward she might as well strip down to her birthday suit in the middle of the party. "The _quiet_ thing. It feels like a cold compress on a blistering summer day, and I've never heard of such a thing for a person like myself. It's true that I can't read you at the most ideal circumstances for it, but this... is different." She wanted to pursue his touch, to bathe herself in it, to be coated in the muted protection that it promised her. She blinked, hard, and realized she was gripping onto his hand and shoulder with bruising strength, and made herself release her grip until her hands were merely resting upon him. "Apologies. You're rather adept at distracting me, Mr. Moran, especially as I've had nothing to drink _this_ evening. So how's this; I'll spend my time with you, on the condition that you explain the true purpose of the blood transfusion you gave me my first night here. Is that a deal?"

He laughed, tucking away the information she had spilled- flustered- for future use. He removed his hand from her back, adjusting his glove, considering the offer before inclining his head slightly. "Very well."

"Then I suggest you lead me away from the party, before one of these unfortunate souls works up the nerve to steal me away himself," she smiled, a genuine one now; her previous evening with Moran, while under poor circumstances, had been rewarding. Making the rewarding time work for her, however, was a delicious prospect.

He raised an eyebrow, but smirked, stepping away and offering her his arm. "As you say," he said with a small smirk.

She could feel eyes on them as he led her from the dance floor, and she didn't have to stretch her hearing to know what they were saying. _The house gets the best picks._

He spoke to a few men as they left, leaving quiet instructions for James' protection, and then they were moving, heading not for her quarters, but for his.

She was surprised to find that he wasn't leading her to her quarters. Why was he choosing his? Simple preference for familiar territory? An increase in trust? Was it closer? She knew better than to ask aloud, so simply let herself be led in silence, her fingers idly playing with his cufflink.

He went down a few floors, stopping in front of a simple, black enameled door. The sheen if the enamel shifted now and then in a pattern so that when the light hit it just right the door became covered in still deeper black tiger stripes.

Sebastian pulled a leather pouch from around his neck, removing a silver key. It reddened his fingers as he opened the door- the knob was also silver- but did not hurt him further. He bowed slightly to Lorna, the movement almost sarcastic. "After you."

She raised her eyebrows at the display, but stepped inside without pause. "Interesting security. Silver on the inside, too? Never seen one of your kind this resilient before."

He smirked a little. "We all have our strengths. Ira endures." He closed the door- the inner handle was also silver- and locked it. "Forgive the excess. One can never be too cautious in this industry." He could smell her, heady in the cool air of his chambers.

She turned away from him, taking in his quarters. Dark and surprisingly simple. Not Victorian at all. Perhaps here he didn't feel the need to conform to today's standards? She certainly couldn't tell how old he truly was. "I suppose I really shan't be leaving without you knowing. Not that it was going to come up," she chuckled, turning back to him, her hand raising up to begin letting down her thick hair. "I suppose I could always just break down the door _around_ the knob, should it have come to it. I'm stronger than I look."

"I don't doubt it," he said with a grin, though he would like to see her try. The _door_ was stronger than it looked, as well. Still, it was an interesting thrill, knowing that there was the chance she could overpower him. He never got that with human women. He reached up to undo his tie, watching her.

She watched him like a hawk. The last time this had happened, she had been in a heated rush, could feel the beginnings of a pulse in her fingertips, and it had driven her to ignore everything but the most basic of details. If they were doing this again, she wanted to do it right. And, if she was completely honest, she rather be in here with the devil she knew than in another room with the devil she didn't. She began undoing the buttons of her dress - luckily for him, she was wearing far fewer layers than normal that night.

He walked over to a simple dressing table, setting down his tie, shortly followed by his gloves, cufflinks, and shirt studs. He removed his jacket and waistcoat, hanging them on a nearby hanger, movements practiced and efficient. His eyes were on Lorna as she undressed, admiring the curves of her body. His eyes settled at her wrist for a touch too long, fangs twinging with desire.

She got down to bare skin and then spoke, her head tilted at a demure angle, her hair laying dark on her pale skin. "Do you look at all your conquests like you're about to devour them? Doesn't that _scare_ them?"

His eyes traveled lazily upward to meet her gaze, and he smiled, fangs glinting slightly in the lamplight. "Again, you assume their fear bothers me."

He nodded for her to follow him, past a door that led to a sitting room, and through another into a bedroom. The bed was large, the four posts each the girth of a fair sized tree, dark wood carved with intricate interlocking designs and patterns, broken up by bands of animals or people, each band fulfilling the scene of some story. The bed coverings were pale silver in color with blue embroidery of the same designs, except for a dark bear skin, impossibly large, thrown across the expanse. The walls were dark wood, carved as well, decorated with more skins and blue cloth drapings. Large wooden chests lined the walls, each securely locked with silver.

She followed him, her gaze torn between him and her surroundings. She could tell that, like him, the things in here were old - older than her by a fair margin, definitely older than America's independence, and possibly older than Armetti himself. She hadn't seen anything like the things in here, but she only allowed herself a moment of staring before she tore her gaze back to him, roving over his musculature, her eyes dark with lust. They twinkled slightly as they alit on his exposed fangs, her eyebrows shifting up slightly. "Did I taste that good last time, Mr. Moran?"

He didn't bother denying it. "I'll admit you were enjoyable. I haven't eaten in a while. Hunger makes anything taste good." He removed his trousers and underclothes, setting them aside and standing before her, unashamedly naked. In the half-light certain bits of his skin took on an odd sheen, almost like the door, glinting in nigh-invisible patterns.

She shook her head slightly, smiling, though her eyes were running down his body. He was built a little differently than other men she'd lain with: he was muscular in a less barrel-ish way. He was built like a warrior. She licked her lips. "Poor Clarence... How could any of them stand up you..?"

"Clarence...?" he inquired in a bored voice, walking forward and reaching out to touch her, the rough pads of his fingers smoothing over the soft slope of her collarbone.

"The alias of the first man to court me tonight. I promised to leave with him at some time tonight," she murmured, looking up at him through her lashes, lifting a hand to brush along the V of his hip.

He smiled at that, fangs fully extended. They were subtle, in his line. While other lines had long fangs, or fangs which doubled or trebled the teeth in their smile, Ira sported only especially sharp canines, and an extra set of the same which extended for feeding or defense. Even when fully extended, their smile- while off-putting- did not tend to alert any but the most astute to their abnormality.

"Poor Clarence indeed," he agreed, smiling. He took her hip, guiding her to turn until he could push her against one of the bed posts. "It is ever so disappointing when things don't go your way."

She smirked, lifting a hand to brush her fingers over that alluring dip of his hip, biting her lip, her fangs half extended. Immediately they were longer than his. Her line was hard to miss. "Convenient for you..."

"Things go my way far more often than they don't," he murmured, his hand sliding from her collarbone to her sternum, pressing her against the wood before he bent in to kiss her.

Kissing with fangs out was always an interesting endeavor; there was an inherent risk to it - the risk of cutting yourself, your partner, the risk of discovery, the risk of letting oneself go out of control. She kissed him with those things in mind, her tongue tracing his lips but not venturing any further for the moment, her fingers tracing the line of his hip.

He sensed her hesitation and reveled in it, in the sensation of making her just a _touch_ uncomfortable. When he pulled away, his lips shifted, pressing against her neck, her throat... He felt as though he could smell the blood beneath.

She felt just the tip of a fang on her skin and leaned her head back, her hand sliding into his hair. "You have my permission, if you want it..." she murmured, eyes slipping shut, hand on his hip wandering further inward, teasing...

He did, which almost troubled him. But the scent of her blood was overwhelming now, and he saw no reason to resist. He pressed his lips to her skin more firmly, teeth piercing her skin.

The blood of their kind was different than the humans. Cool and sharper in flavor, almost fermented. And the intoxicating effects seemed to support that view. He drank slowly, the trickle over his tongue sating an itching thirst he had only just begun to realize.

She took him in hand and found him hot and heavy, and she shifted uncomfortably, her core already wanting, spurred on by the fangs in her throat. She was still experiencing that peaceful quiet, the ultimate silence; even without touch, there was always an energy in the air, like whispers too far away to be heard, and she hadn't even realized it had been there until it was gone. Touching him was like the most exquisite drug, the most potent medicine, the coolest sip of water in a parched desert. Had she been too numbed the first time they'd coupled? Caught up in that awful energy? Or had his blood been working some strange magic within her, molding her into a more willing minion? She didn't know, and right at that second, she couldn't bring herself to care, her hand stroking down his length.

He wanted to keep drinking. He was hungry, yes, but this was deeper. She was the most satisfying thing he'd ever tasted. You got used to the thirst, never quite satiated, once you were turned. After so many centuries it was as natural to him as breathing. But her blood on his tongue was... he couldn't describe it.

He tore himself away after too long, already beginning to feel the warmth, the loosening effects of her blood as it coursed through his system. He became aware of her hand at his cock and let out a pleased hum, hips pushing forward against her grip, pinning her more firmly to the bed post.

She'd thoroughly enjoyed being drank from, but it was still a relief to be released: he'd been going for long enough that she was beginning to feel thirst of her own. She nuzzled his face to find his lips, tasting herself on him with a soft sound, her fingers tightening on him slightly.

He kissed her back, mind relaxing slightly. He reached down to pull her hand away from his length, before taking her hips in his hands and lifting her up against the bed post. He settled his hips between her thighs, holding her up, and kissing her roughly.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, rolling her hips against him, nipping lightly at his lip, feeling increasingly fevered, feeling free in her motions for one of the first times she remembered, since being human.

He could feel the heat of her blood moving through him, and groaned, impatient. His own stagnate blood stirred eagerly under his skin, shifting at his body's command, hardening his length. He pulled away just long enough to line up with her, and then pushed into her slowly. He pulled away to watch her face, her eyes, as he entered her.

Her eyes were nearly black with desire, and she took a deep breath as he sank into her, fingers clutching tight at his warming skin. Her eyes fluttered shut as he bottomed out, the slightest of gasps leaving her, and she ground her hips against his impatiently.

He began moving with her, pinning her with force against the post. He felt _alive_ in a way that was so rare for him these years. He remembered- with sudden, odd clarity- the first time he had coupled with someone after James had turned him. He had been concerned that he wouldn't be able to, but no, he found all the necessary parts to function perfectly. More exciting than that had been the discovery of how it made him feel. More than just sex, now, it was a tie to his old life, pulse, and breath that was only parallelled by feeding.

This, though, was beyond the usual sensation. Her blood was setting him alight, and his blood tainting her veins only seemed to deepen the effect. His eyes met hers, wild and black with desire.

As much as she wanted to dwell on the fact that she was only doing this for the information, for the chance to find out what effects his blood was really having on her, she couldn't keep the thought in her head, near-shuddering with how good he felt. There was something special about sex with a vampire who was closer to their humanity than usual. The knowledge that he was a being as powerful as herself, but still holding that elusive, tangible _warmth._ God, the heat was always so exquisite. Vampires couldn't feel cold, not really. It all came down to the absence of _heat._ Something so closely tied with their lifesource was always going to be linked with pleasure. She leaned in to kiss him again, her sharp canine breaking the skin without her really intending to, and she drank from him without invitation, sick of propriety.

He felt the sting, but it did nothing to slow him. He was hungry anyway, he wasn't worried about her diminishing him. He would feed soon. He gripped her and turned, pulling out for long enough to throw her onto the mattress, felt her fang draw a slice in his skin as he did. Then he was on her again, throwing her thighs wide and settling between them, entering her again with force.

She swore loudly, hands fisting in the sheets momentarily before she wrapped one hand around his bicep (as far as it could go, anyway) and raked her nails down his back, biting into her own lip, energy burning up her spine, and suddenly she wanted more. She dragged her nails harder across his skin, drawing blood this time, her eyes locked on his, daring him.

He felt his skin break again, and bared his teeth, fangs flashing momentarily in warning. It was a good thing he would feed soon, or the marks would have taken weeks to close. As it was, the sting drove him onward. He met her gaze and accepted the challenge, bending to sink fangs into the soft flesh of her breast over her heart. He was met by a hearty surge of blood, and drank hard.

She would definitely need to drink later tonight; he was taking a significant amount of her blood, and while it wasn't exactly nutritious for him, it was very necessary for her functioning. She let the thought slip from her mind for the moment, slipping back into the burning ecstasy, into the burning heat of him, her hand at his bicep gripping with just under her full strength. It must have ached, but she couldn't help it, not at the moment, and she twisted and writhed under him desperately.

His muscles crunched under her grip as it tightened, but he was lost in her, and didn't register the pain. Her blood on his tongue helped that.

He came up eventually, tongue darting out to like a stray drop. He shifted a little until his hips ground against hers with every movement, rubbing her clit, pushing her toward completion.

She broke through without much more help, releasing her grip on him so she didn't seriously wound him and instead ripping the sheets beneath her like putting her fingers through water. Her orgasm was such a god-given _relief_ that she was left gasping for breath, hair strewn in a dark halo around her head.

He came a few moments later, letting out muffled noise of pleasure as he rode out the aftershocks, rolling through his blood-drunk body like waves of life.

He collapsed next to her a moment later, rolling to the side out of habit, though he doubted he could crush her if he tried.

She let out a long, satisfied breath as he pulled away, letting her eyes slip shut for a minute while she let the contentment sink into her bones. It was something she would allow herself until he showed the first sign of pulling himself together.

He eventually worked his way out of his lulled haze, stretching and grunting in contentment. The woman next to him had yet to move, but he was starting to itch, so he rose and opened a mostly-concealed door into a water closet, beginning to wash up. Blood oozed up on his back in a few places where Harrison's nails had broken his skin.

Her eyes drifted open and she turned her head to watch him, eyes on the marks she had left on him, a smug feeling in her chest. Marking up her employer was a supremely amusing arrangement, and he was a pleasure to look at, anyway. "So," she ventured, after he'd disappeared into the bath. "I believe it's time for my payment, as enjoyable as this was."

He smirked from where he was cleaning up, and considered telling her no, just because he could. But the information wasn't important enough to lose her trust, when he could use it for so much more.

"What exactly do you want to know?"

"What, _exactly,_ does giving me your blood accomplish? Why was that the first thing you did when you hired me? And why do I get this... blessed silence from touching your bare skin? I did not even realize I was _missing_ silence," she said, sitting up, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. "It's the opposite of touching someone else. Someone with my bloodline."

"What's that do, some sort of shrieking hellstorm?" he asked, walking back in, a dark silk robe around him, loosely tied.

She shrugged lightly, still laying where he'd left her, one pale leg drawn up at the knee. "More as if there was... Feedback, of some sort. As if you scratched a gramophone, or hit the wrong note in the middle of a song. But you didn't answer my question."

"Which one, precisely?" he asked with a smirk. "There was a list, and I only agreed to one."

She pressed her lips together a little, irritated, but that was the only sign. "Why did you give me your blood?"

"Because it was useful to me," he said, smiling slightly. "If that will be all, Ms. Harrison..."

She sat up, but made no effort to move otherwise. "Don't attempt to dissuade me so easily. I fulfilled my end of the bargain. Answer in detail."

His smirk widened, clearly enjoying her ire. "I do believe I answered your question, Ms. Harrison. Detail was never part of the bargain."

She lifted her chin slightly, archly, and got out of the bed. "Alright, Mr. Moran, behave as you wish. Count this as the last bargain between us." Then she moved to start getting dressed again, for all intents and purposes ignoring him.

He smirked, unruffled. "It allows me to track you," he said casually. He had never intended to not tell her. Only to see how she would react.

She looked back at him, grey eyes unreadable, and said nothing until she was partially dressed, back in her skirts. "You like to see how people tick, don't you Mr. Moran? I think you'll find I'm not quite your average woman. I won't put up with more than your position gives you; which is not everything. You may own me now, but I could still do significant damage to you, if not kill you, should I wish it. I am a spiteful woman. I will forsake everything to make a point to someone who has pushed me too far. This isn't a warning. Just something for you to consider next time you treat me like another foolish human woman." Her voice was calm, collected, her back turned to him again.

"How old do you think I am, Ms. Harrison?" he asked. His voice was cool. Amused. "Ira endures. You'll learn eventually."

"I have no idea of your age, but if you decide to tell me I certainly shan't object," she said, looking over her shoulder at him, a smirk back on her face.

He laughed, then. "You amuse me, Harrison. Run along before you get stale." He made a shooing motion. "You've been paid. Don't you know it's in poor taste to linger? I'm sure you've a line of wapping coves waiting ye." His accent- formerly little more than a lilt, deeped on the last sentence to a fully rounded brogue that bared his teeth in a dark smile.

She laughed, pulling on her corset. "Help me lace up and I'll be gone in and a wink, Mr. Moran."

"I'm sure one of the girls will give you a hand," he said in a bored voice, picking up a book from the night stand. "Oh. Here." He took the silver key from around his neck and tossed it her direction without looking.

She caught it out of reflex, gritting her teeth as the silver made contact with her skin and sizzled, and she headed for the door with quick steps, gingerly unlocking the door and flinging it open to avoid touching the knob for too long, and then she left the key embedded in an inch into the wood paneling of the wall, and exited, slamming the door behind her.

Moran continued reading, the only sign that he had heard her the barest hint of a smirk.

She had the good fortune to run into one of the girls in the hall, who took one look at the hall she'd come from and gave her a knowing smirk before helping her put herself back to rights, and then she headed to the blood bar, keen to get her bites healed before she returned to the party.


	5. Love Has Always Been A Weakness

Moran dressed again once she had left, and reentered the party. He could feel his hunger keenly, now, but it would wait. He never partook of the blood bars during Moriarty's soirees. Vulnerability was not something to be grasped when he was in charge of security.

She hurriedly drank at the blood bar, though not so impatiently as to hurt the woman she drank from, and then returned to the party, keen to get back to her work. The sooner she completed this task, the sooner she could be reunited with her shifting abilities. She ignored Moran's presence in the room, now somewhat harder to keep her eyes away from.

It was the fourth man she danced and chatted with that she got anywhere - he'd been somewhat distracted the whole endeavor, which had been out of character for the men tonight, and when she finally got her bare wrist to touch his, she blinked.

 _-pretty, but nothing compared to what that demon can conjure... Have to talk to Horace again, need myself another fix-_

He shifted, and the line was cut, but it was what she had been looking for.

He watched the woman dance with partner after partner, but reigned himself in when he realized he was fantasizing about drinking from her again. He was fucking hungry. He turned to enter James' private party, falling in beside his employer without a word, though Moriarty shot him a disparaging glance which said he knew everything.

She extricated herself from the conversation she was in and followed the small group of people that Moran and Moriarty were part of, taking a few long strides to help catch up with them, and caught them just before they left the room.

Moran nodded at her, and caught the look in her eye. Moriarty caught his signal, and seamlessly changed his direction, heading for his office. They walked down the dark hallway and stepped inside, and Moran shut the door once Harrison and James had entered.

James turned on the woman, eyes glinting. "Well?"

"Do you have an employee named Horace? That's where they're getting a connection. Some sort of demon of lust, or illusions, I would wager." She replied, hands clasped in front of her.

James raised an eyebrow at Moran, who nodded once. "Very well, Ms. Harrison. Well done. That will be all, I think. If you'll excuse us, we have a rat to hunt."

She nodded, and turned to exit, pleased that that left her free to return to her quarters and get out of this ridiculous dress.

Moran watched her leave, then turned his attention to Jim. "Orders, sir?"

Jim's eyes were dark. "Bring Horace Wilson to me. I need to meet this demon, and I suspect he's the one guarding the gate to it.

He smiled, nostrils flaring slightly as he searched for the scent he needed. "He's not working tonight. I'll have him within the hour," he said as his pupils blew out wide.

James gave a quite malicious grin, and nodded his head towards the door. "I'll hold you to your word, Sebastian. Get goin', won't ye?"

He moved out the door at a speed that would have made most human athletes weep, flicking through the halls and into the dark street. It was pushing himself, to use any sort of speed when he was this hungry, not to mention to track, but that was what his line did.

Ira endured.

He ignored the protests of his body, nostrils flaring wide as he found the scent of his quarry's blood. Not far, few blocks away at most. Freshly fed, by the scent of it.

Luck was with him. He'd do better than an hour.

And he did.

* * *

Jim waited in his back office, a convenient side entrance in the halls nearby to avoid the party. When Moran dragged the bleeding vampire into the room, Jim smiled that malicious smile and stood from his desk, fingertips on the mahogany wood. "Well, well, _well,_ look what the cat dragged in... _Hullo, Horace._ I _do_ hope you know why you're here..."

The man looked up at him, eyes wide with terror, an emotion that had been kindled by the silver dagger at his spine and fueled by his rough trip to Moriarty's feet. "Mr. Moriarty, sir, it's an honor to-"

"Shut it," he snapped, around the desk and inches from the man's face in seconds, his fangs out, nearly identical to Sebastian's, double incisors glinting in the low light. "You've been _naughty,_ Mr. Wilson. Stealing from the company... stealing from _me._ Your _gracious_ employer. I feed you, I pay you, I take _care_ of my employees, Horace. In return, I expect some _FUCKING LOYALTY,"_ he snarled, hand going to grip the man's hair, wrenching it back painfully. Then his voice became sweet, soft. "Now, Mr. Wilson... time to let papa _know everything."_

"Mr. Moriarty, sir, I swear, I don't know what you're talking about! I have always been-" Moran rolled his eyes, and pressed the flat of his knife against Horace's spine. The man screamed and tried to wriggle away.

"Tell me, or I'll kill Ms. Lewis in front of you," James whispered into his ear, hand leaving his hair and caressing his face as he leaned back again, smiling. "Yes, I know. I keep track of all my employees' _relations._ A _human,_ Mr. Wilson? _Scandalous."_

Wilson groaned as Sebastian removed the knife, shaking slightly. "Leave her out of this, sir, I... I never meant to be disloyal... I never breathed a word o' your name..."

"You've been stealing my _business,_ Wilson!" He hissed, back to vitriol, grabbing the man by the jaw, eyes blazing. " _TELL ME._ If you don't, I'll kill her, and I'll make her into a pair of fucking _loafers."_

He recoiled, trying to get away, but he was pinned between the two of them. "There's... there's a demon... I don't know its name. It just wanted a few humans, now and then, that's all. I brought them over, just down to the dens in the east end, to a place called the Eastern Lights."

He smiled, letting go of the man. "Was that so hard, Mr. Wilson? Moran, put him in a cell until we confirm his story."

Moran grinned and lifted the other man up, knife still firmly at his spine. He had no illusions that Wilson couldn't overpower him if he wasn't strongly checked by the prospect of a painful death. "This way, Horace." He pushed him out the door.

Jim returned to his desk to summon a retainer from the series of buttons on his desk that called on different services; blood, cleaning, bodyguards, and a few more specific buttons for certain people. He could press a button that would ring a small bell in Moran's quarters, for instance. He called cleaning this time, to take care of the blood on the floor, and then sat, beginning to drum up a plan to confront this demon.

Moran left Horace in the care of a few of his guards, and decided he had waited long enough to find a decent meal. The party had long since petered out, and the early light of dawn would be hitting the streets above, so he went to the dark halls of the blood bar to find himself a suitable straggler.

* * *

Jim eventually decided on a course of action, but by then day had come and gone, and he resummoned Moran.

He had been resting in the wake of his meal, reading in his quarters, when the summons came. He stood and dressed quickly, the vivid blue of his now-visible tattoos standing in sharp contrast with the crimson of his shirt. The call had come from James' formal office, and he was on his way in a matter of minutes, adjusting his waistcoat as he walked. His employer used the front office while conducting business at parties, but this was the centre of operations. He knocked.

"Enter," Jim said casually, overlooking a map of the city in front of him, and looked up as he stepped through the door. "I've been formulating a plan to deal with this loss of business. Considering it's an unnamed demon... I believe we'll need to begin with diplomacy. I need to know what the infernal beast _wants_ before we decide how to move forward. I'm sending you with a partner to ease your entrance. I imagine the demon asks offerings of its human followers; a pretty face should suffice to get you in the door."

Moran made a slight face at the prospect of a partner, but he would suffer it if it meant having a chance at brawling with a demon. "Of course, sir. Information only? Or would you like me to make our presence known?"

"It's a demon, Sebastian. If you get close enough to it, it'll know you instantly. If that happens, I want you to make clear that Horace is gone. If it reacts badly, get out of there; but I doubt it'll come to that." He said, picking a fleck of blood out from under his nail.

He nodded, reaching up to push his hair back from his face. "Who will I be taking with me, sir?"

"Again, it's your choice. We can try out the new girl; see if she has some sort of further usefulness. Otherwise, most of our grifters are out on assignment," James said, shrugging once. "But you have your pick of the ones remaining."

He raised an eyebrow at that, considering. "She did manage to charm her way through _our_ doors," he chuckled.

"Indeed she did. And she made a guess as to the demon's nature - so she's not wholly uneducated, despite what I assume were Armetti's best efforts. And tell me, Sebastian," he smirked, "Was she a pleasant engagement for you?"

He smirked right back, unabashed. "I can see why Armetti kept her around for so long, sir. She isn't wholly uneducated in those respects, either."

He laughed, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets. "Everyone could stand to learn a little _something._ Maybe I'll extend a hand of _education_ as well... I _do_ love your face when I convince your conquests to transfer their attention to me," he smirked. It was a little game between them, one mostly initiated by James, when he was in a mood for such things. It helped to smooth over tensions between them, when they arose. Bonding through shared rewards. Taking each other's blood. Both of them dancing around the link between them that had existed millenniums.

He turned slightly, amusement fading. "Convince Horace to tell us when the next gathering takes place at the demon's little _den._ I want this leech dealt with as soon as possible."

Moran flashed his teeth at the comment about Harrison, a playful threat, but he nodded. "I'll see to it personally. Anything else, sir?"

"No, that's all. You're dismissed," he said, nodding his head towards the door and turning to make for his desk.

He nodded, and walked out the door, closing it softly behind him. He paused to consider, then headed for the basement. He'd deal with Horace, then speak with Ms. Harrison.

* * *

Horace was having what could be described as a miserable time. Stuck in a pitch-black basement that strained even his night vision, surrounded by the stench of death and rotting flesh, the only thing catching in the darkness the silver door. He was very much beginning to regret what he had done. That damned demon.

Moran opened the door, holding a lantern. He handed the key back to the guard and stepped inside, closing the door behind him before setting the lantern in a bracket on the wall. "Hello, Horace. Miss me?" he asked, removing his gloves.

Horace gave a very weak smile. "Will you punish me too much if I tell y' the truth and say no?" He joked quietly, in a pained breath. His spine was still not in the best condition.

Moran laughed, stepping forward as he tucked his gloves away. His boots made dull thuds on the grimy stone floor. "I like you, Horace. You're a plucky fellow. It's a terrible shame you couldn't direct your talents more truly."

"I am beginning t' regret that quite dearly, sir," he breathed, looking resigned. There was not much for him to do, not now that he was down here. His guilt had been decided. That demon wouldn't be able to reach him again before he died an eternal death.

He nodded. "You're smart, then. Cooperate, and this will all go better for you. Does that seem reasonable?"

His eyes fell shut, and he nodded. He was on the verge of tears. "Yes, sir."

"When is this demon of yours next hosting an evening?" Moran asked quietly, straightening his jacket.

"Two nights from now. Starts as soon as the sun goes down, an' then kicks up near midnight."

He nodded. "I do hope that's true, Horace. If it is, I think we can discuss a future for you outside of this room. If it isn't... Well, you'll have a very long future. I can promise that. But there will be little discussion that you participate in."

He swallowed hard, dread sinking low in his gut, hands closing into trembling fists. "Yes- yes sir."

He smiled, and reached out, pushing Horace's hair back gently, a mocking caress. "Good job, Horace. Well done."

He flinched, but otherwise didn't move. He was too afraid to.

"I have been wondering what would happen if I put liquid silver into the bloodstream of a vampire..." he said softly. "Disappoint me, and I'll find out."

Horace shivered, swallowing audibly this time. "A-aye, sir... It shan't be necessary, I swear."

He nodded, smiling softly. "Excellent." He turned for the door, reaching up to take his lantern. "Have a good night, Horace," he said, knocking on the silver door with bare knuckles, just because he could.

Horace made a nervous noise, and gave a very awkward wave of his hand, unsure how else to react to a chilling display of one's pain tolerance

The door opened and Moran stepped outside, turning to walk toward the stairs and trusting his guards to lock Horace up again.

* * *

Lorna had stripped down from her party gear in the meanwhile, taken a bath, and laid down in a barely-there sleeping shift that she had been supplied (and didn't have the luxury of choosing) and decided to take a very rare sleep. It was nothing for a vampire to stay awake for weeks on end without rest, but every now and then it just felt _delightful_ to lay one's head down and sleep.

Moran knocked harshly, but did not open the door. She had done well on her assignment. She had earned the right to an illusion of propriety.

She snapped awake, eyes on the door, and swiftly stood, with none of the grogginess of a just-awoken human, and put on the dressing gown on the chair by her bed before heading to the door, hair loose around her face. She opened the door and then had to look significantly further up than she had been expecting. "Mr. Moran. Can I assist you?"

He raised an eyebrow at her less-than-sheveled state "Yes, but it is not a matter of urgency. Take your time to dress. Come to my office in an hour."

She let out a relieved breath. "Thank God. Alright, I shall see you then."

He nodded, and turned to go, walking down the hall at a clip. He credited her bleary eyes and the shadows of the hall with her lack of reaction to his tattoos.

She dressed and put her hair up, found a decent pair of shoes, and resisted the urge to wander the halls while waiting for the meeting, deciding that her presence would likely come under unpleasant scrutiny. She read until quarter-til, and then had the man posted outside her door walk her to Moran's office, where she knocked primly.

He was going over a map of the area surrounding the dens they would be infiltrating, and looked up at the knock. He folded the map, glanced at his desk for any other important material, and, seeing none, called "Come in."

She stepped in, completely put together, and her eyes were immediately drawn to his blue tattoos, and she raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Were those there before or have you made a significant life choice?"

He gave her a toothy grin. The markings surrounding his eyes- the tapered lines of tiger stripes which framed his face and disappeared into his hair- rippled slightly with the expression. "They were there before. Have a seat."

She nodded a little and did as asked, adjusting her skirts to be comfortable as she did so, trying not to openly stare at the bold markings on his face and throat. She wanted to touch them. "What can I do for you?"

"Mr. M has an assignment for us," he drawled, amused by her obvious distraction. "You'll be accompanying me to the opium district."

"Delightful," she said, slightly sarcastically. "I assume that we have good reason to go to a district that might attempt to rob us and subsequently cause us to commit homicide?"

His smile widened unnaturally. "We're hunting a demon."

She swallowed.

 _Eyes deeper than they should be, as if there's too many souls in them, as if there's screaming inside them-_

"Anything you say," she said, smiling tightly.

He studied her face. He could see the tension, but he couldn't place it. "Something wrong?"

"Not the first demon I've faced," she said through slightly gritted teeth. "I think the last one wasn't your average demon, either. I hope this one is in the lowest category."

Moran simply nodded casually, though he was interested to know more. "I suppose we will see. It will be reconnaissance only, first. We'll make decisions from there."

She nodded back, shaking the thoughts of the demon from her head as best as she could manage without a suitable distraction, and smiled a tad more normally. "What kind of reconnaissance? I doubt you'd be bringing me if it was a stealth mission - more parties, then? Mr. Moran, you do seem to love a ball."

"I do seem," he agreed dryly. "Yes. A party. We'll be talking our way through the door based on our man's intelligence. It shouldn't be overly difficult. From there, just reconnaissance until you are told otherwise."

She nodded, running her hands over her skirts absently. "Understood. Anything else I should know or prepare for?"

He shrugged. "I feel as though 'demon party in an opium den' is enough to focus on, don't you?"

She raised her eyebrows a little, nodding. "Entirely true. Am I free to... Not leave, I suppose, but return to my quarters?"

He nodded. "But get prepared. We leave the night after tomorrow."

She nodded and stood. "You know where I'll be," she said simply, and then headed for the door.

He watched her go, part of him twinging with curiosity. When had she encountered a demon? He'd have to check her file.

She was escorted back to her quarters and spent her time reading the newspaper serials and novels that someone had thought to provide her room, then picking out a dress appropriate for a party in the opium district. She hadn't done anything like this in a very long time; not since trying to win Armetti's favor. Naturally, it had been a very brief period of time.

Moran went about his duties as usual over the course of the next two days. He sent a man over to the opium den Horace had mentioned, to get the layout of the building and the surrounding area, and made arrangements for their extraction should things go horribly wrong.

* * *

The night of the party she was ready and waiting for him when he knocked, and opened the door in a resplendent maroon dress with black accents and ruby jewelry the size of a baby's fingernails, dark hair pulled up, accentuating her sharp jawline. "Mr. Moran. How do you do?"

He gave her a cool smile. The color had been his request, to match his own apparel, but he had left the design to the costuming department. They had not disappointed. Her dress was elegant but distractingly appealing, a balance between propriety and enticement. His own suit- dark charcoal with crimson slashes and accents- complimented it perfectly. For all the world they would be a handsome couple of good money just waiting to be duped. "Ms. Harrison. Quite well. And yourself?"

She smoothed a hand down the front of her dress, smiling slightly, wryly. "Had I the need for oxygen I might have a concern that what they gave me was made a little tightly," she smirked, her posture perfected by the corset someone else had helped her lace into. "Luckily for us, that is not the case. I should be able to dance just fine, if that's required this evening, so everything's worked out swimmingly. Are we ready to leave?"

"I have a cab waiting," he agreed, offering her his arm. She looked stunning, and he certainly wouldn't complain about a dance or two.

She took it with a cursory smile, looking for a moment up at his face, searching for the hints of the tattoos that came and went from his visage, and with her sharper-than-human eyesight could just make out the hints of the lines on his face, and then she averted her gaze again, to avoid seeming rude, and they set off, relieving the guard at her door. She wondered how long they would keep her under constant surveillance, mostly cooped up in her quarters. She was beginning to chafe a little at the leash, wondering when she'd be able to walk around the premises at a whim, visit outside at a whim, get a glimpse of the sunset.

He led her through the halls and staircases, slowly rising to the grey darkness of early evening. The moon was full tonight as they stepped outside, much to his annoyance. His pupils shrank under the reflected sunlight, the beginnings of a headache drumming at the base of his skull. But there was nothing to be done and he ignored it, ushering Harrison into a waiting cab. It was a network cab, the horses used to their kind, and they didn't spook as their kind were prone to.

She got into the cab and settled down for a ride, pleased to be out in the fresh air, the moon not bright enough to give someone of her line a hard time.

He endured the ride in silent vigilance. The jostling of the carriage added to his headache, but he had had far worse and he could deal with it. They reached their destination without incident, the cab drawing up and the driver hopping down to open the door for them. "Sir. Madame."

She gave the driver a winning smile as he helped her step out, and then turned her attention to the building in front of them. It was old, but not as old as she'd expected for a demon's hideout. Well, the other demon she had seen had been in the middle of a war zone. She didn't have much of a point of reference.

Sebastian reached out to offer her his arm, eyeing the building with the gaze of a soldier, marking entrances and exits, windows, vantage points, and so on.

She let her face smooth out as they started walking up the path towards the building, tense, but grip on Moran's arm relaxed. "Well, this ought to be interesting, hm?"

"Of that, I have no doubt," he agreed softly. There was a small queue at the door as two men in trim suits inspected entering guests for weapons.

"I guess this is a bad time to mention I've two hundred knives hidden on my person," she murmured to him, smirking slightly, eyes on the guards.

"Hilarious," he said dryly, patting her arm sarcastically. "If they try to kill you I'll pass the salt."

"You think they're like us?" She raised her eyebrows. "Are they part of the organization?"

"No," he smirked. "But if it's a demon, it's bound to have more lackies of our kind than just poor Horace."

"I thought there wasn't a vampire in London that you two didn't know about," she chuckled. "Was your reaction to finding me that special?"

He smirked. "I don't know them all, at least not on sight. I didn't know _you_ on sight, either. I just knew you didn't belong. You were kind enough to supply me with your name."

She gave him a sideways look. "Doesn't your blood helpfully supply you the information on your charges, or do you reserve such invasions of privacy for the pretty ones?"

"We don't own every vampire in London," he scoffed. "Please. We're far more exclusive than that." He declined to inform her of how many creatures he had tagged.

Her look morphed into an offended one, then settled down into neutrally sullen. "I was about to ask why you insisted on owning me, and then realized that of _course_ my past affiliations affected it. Bastard." She added in a mutter, not directed at him, but at Armetti.

He smirked, but declined to comment until the men at the door had patted him down. They looked bored. Evidently strangers were not unheard of at these parties.

"Password?" one asked dully.

* * *

A/N

Please review if you like what you're reading! It's been nothing but silence, guys!


	6. Flashbacks Of Another Millennium

Lorna glanced at Moran and found that he was not answering as quickly as she would have liked. That left them with two options: talk their way through or blow their cover and approach the demon anyway. She didn't think either of the men she was working with would very much like if she initiated the second, so she put an embarrassed smile on her face. "Oh dear, I knew I should have written it down. Mr. Wilson sent us your way; thought we would try out the new scene - but I've completely forgotten the password, my apologies!" She said quickly, in a hushed whisper, looking mortified.

Moran did his best to look abashed, but he ended up settling for sobered. The older of the two men sighed, and waved them through without bothering to question further. "Just go, you're holding up the line."

They continued forward and Lorna let the expression fade off her face, glancing up at Moran with a quick quirk of her eyebrows. _That was a close one, huh?_

"Wilson will pay for that," he said softly through a grim smile.

"I'm sure he will," she snorted quietly. "What was his plan? Did he really think those two could have taken us both out? In public, no less?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps he still fears this demon more than us. A foolish notion."

She looked a little more skeptical, and didn't say anything for a second. Then, "Have _you_ ever met a demon before?"

He shrugged again. "Met is perhaps the wrong word. Dealt with, yes. Fought, yes. Met implies conversation."

She nodded a little. "Any idea what... Class, rank, what have you, it was?"

He shrugged. "I was young. My memory is foggy. He was a right bastard though. That I know." They had been walking slowly down a long hall, through several doors, always pointed the right way by attendant standing by for that purpose. Now, though, he could hear the slow strains of music filtering through the next door, and a light haze was developing in the air. "Shall we?"

She glanced at him at his mention of his memory, wondering how hers would stand up over time, then looked ahead of them, eyes wandering over the door. "Let's."

He nodded to the attendant, who opened the door to allow them entrance. The room beyond was a world of mist and shadow, lit by warm braziers. Figures lounged on couches, talking in low tones, faces difficult to make out at any distance in the gloom. The smell of opium was strong.

She scanned the crowd, searching for the demon. Would she be able to tell it by sight, like the last one? Would looking into its eyes be just as heart-stoppingly terrifying as the last one? She resisted the urge to step closer to Moran, instead clearing her throat just slightly. "Something tells me there won't be much dancing tonight..."

He nodded. "Do you have any experience with opium?" He asked as they meandered forward.

She glanced at him. "I've never been allowed near the stuff," she said, somewhat curious. "Why? I didn't think it would have an effect on us."

"It doesn't, at least, not in the way it affects humans. We don't dream the way they do, so it finds a different way. It makes your memories much more... vivid." He shrugged.

She clicked her tongue once. "Yes, because that's exactly the thing I need. Are you asking because we might be expected to take some?"

He nodded slightly. "And because it's in the air. I don't know if you still breathe habitually, you're young enough, but now would be a good time to make a conscious effort not to."

She stopped mid-breath, looking slightly put off, but nodded. "Good to know. Thank you for the warning," she said quietly, shifting her arm in his. She was capable - Armetti hadn't left her completely defenseless, for his own sake - but she was nervous. A demon? It was out of her league, she was fairly certain.

He moved through the room toward a long bar along the back wall where a crowd of more sober attendees had gathered.

She could tell a few of these people were management; they looked far more alert, and their eyes were consistently leaving the bar to wander the room, landing and pausing on various patrons before moving on. She did her best to avoid eye contact, not wanting to draw attention to themselves, especially after the way they'd gotten into the party.

Moran walked them over to a free couch against a wall with a good view of the room, and motioned for her to take a seat. "Let us just watch the proceedings for a moment."

She nodded once and sat with much adjusting of skirts to look her best, eyes lingering on the managers by the bar. "Be careful of the woman in the violet dress. She's... Sharper than everyone else in here," she murmured, after a minute or two of observation.

He raised an eyebrow and snorted. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind," he said sarcastically, eyes drifting to the aforementioned woman who was giggling insipidly at something one of the male guests had said.

She turned her head a little so she could roll her eyes, pulling up her gloves a little and waiting for him to do something typically bullish of a man.

He released her arm. "We'll learn more separately," he pointed out quietly. "You'll be more approachable."

She glanced at him and nodded, settling her gloved hands in her lap. "You're right. Well, do have _fun_."

He left her, then, mingling into the crowd and haze, heading toward the bar.

The woman in the violet dress put on a charming smile as he got closer, beckoning him over with a curl of her finger. "Why _hello_ there. I don't think I've seen you here before..."

He raised an eyebrow, but approached with a small smile. Harrison was a good reader, sure, but so was he, and he knew the way these parties operated. A woman like this could spill precious details if properly cajoled.

"Up for a drink? On the house. Everything here is," she smiled, one on the same class of the sort Lorna could summon. "Who clued you in to our little parties?"

He reached to take her hand, kissing it in greeting. "My thanks, my lady. I'd be glad of a drink, especially one offered by such a charming woman. My name is Alaric. What might I call you?"

"Helena," she smiled, half-curtseying. "Pleasure to meet you, Alaric. But you didn't answer my question! Who can I thank for your presence tonight? I try to thank those who bring in suitable newcomers."

He smiled. "An old friend of mine. Wilson. He's been alluding to something for ages, but he finally decided to let me enjoy his little secret. Though, with women such as yourself in attendance, I can see why he'd like to keep it to himself."

"Oh, Alaric, what a charmer you are," she smiled, a sly sort of look. She turned towards the bar. "Order anything you like, by the way..."

"Scotch, then," he said, nodding to the bartender and pulling a note out of an inner pocket. "And whatever the lady drinks."

She waved off his money. "No, no, on the house, remember? And I'll have a brandy, Arthur, thank you," Helena smiled. She smiled constantly. The expression never left her face. "How do you know Wilson, Alaric? Neighbors? Colleagues?"

He nodded his thanks and tucked the notes away once more. "Through friends. We ran in the same circles, kept rubbing elbows, and I found him a amusing fellow, in his own right. You know him, I take it?"

"I know everyone here, more or less," she shrugged slightly, turning as Arthur leaned over the bar to hand them their drinks. "I'm somewhat the mistress of introductions among the people of these gatherings. I help people make friends."

He took his glass and raised it to her. "Then it seems I've made the right acquaintance to begin my evening. Your health, Helena."

"To yours, Alaric," she smiled, clinking glasses with him and then putting back a significant portion of her little glass.

He smiled and did the same, tilting back the drink with a sigh of content.

Helena gave that smile again, leaning artfully against the bar. "Who did you come in with tonight, by the way?"

"An acquaintance of mine, but she prefers to make her own introductions. A bit of a modern type, if you know my meaning." He smiled. "She's off making them now, I would imagine."

She nodded, taking another sip of brandy, glancing at his glass. "Sounds like a woman I'd get along with."

"I imagine that you would. If I see her wander by, I'll invite her over, but this haze is a hell of a thing."

Helena laughed. "It's certainly a hindrance when you're looking for a partner, I'll say that. I would complain, but the opium makes pleasant companions out of nearly all, and keeps the peace in what might have otherwise been a politically charged climate. Ambitions running amok, that sort of thing."

"That sort of thing," he agreed knowingly. "Luckily for me, however, I do seem to have stumbled upon a partner quite easily this evening. The best in the room, I would wager."

"Aren't you a charming one?" She smirked, placing a gloved hand on her tightly cinched waist. "Will your friend be jealous if I keep you to myself all evening? Not that I can, unfortunately, I do have other duties this evening."

"My friend is just that, and not the jealous type. As for your duties, perhaps I can assist in some way?" He gave a toothy smile.

She chuckled, finishing off her brandy and placing the glass on the bar for Arthur to take away. "Well, if you finish your drink, maybe we can find something productive for you to do. We'll see, won't we?"

He did, taking the last sip slowly. It burned right. Aarland's scotch always did. He gave the girl a smile. "Aye. I can think oa few ways I could be useful t'ya."

Helena raised her eyebrows slightly at his thickening accent, a finger tapping once on the bar where her hand rested, but her smile remained. "Oh, I'm sure. Why don't we adjourn to the staff sitting room, and you can... _elaborate_ on that, hm?"

"I cannae think o something I'd prefer, to be truthful." He stood and offered her his arm. The worn wood of the bar- no, not worn. The new, shiny wood of the bar- had Aarland redecorated?- glinted in the light. "Lead me wherever ya please."

She took his arm, back to beaming, and began to lead him through the haze, skirting the edge of the room and pushing through a narrow door half-hidden by its paint choice, revealing a simple sitting room with spartan furniture made for people to simply get off their feet for a few minutes. Once the door was closed, she turned to him, the smile gone. "Now, you'll tell me who you really are, or things will begin to become _unpleasant, Alaric."_

He was surprised, hands going up quickly. "Easy nahw, lass, I dinnae mean any offense. If my eyes were where y' din ae want em I'll be off on my way."

"Not what I meant, Alaric," she said sharply, a blade in her hand suddenly, the silver glistening in the light. "I know another creature of the night when I drug them, believe me. Wilson didn't bring you here. Where is he? Who are you? And good God, man, what's happened to your _accent?"_

"Oh, now, tha's a language I speak," he said with a smile, reaching out to grab the blade without concern and twisting it from her grip. It cut and burned his palm, but not as badly as it might have, and he flipped it to the hilt. "One o' us then. Whose clan sent ya?" He was feeling it now. Frenzy working through him, warming his blood.

Lorna was in the middle of a conversation with a rather kind woman and her husband about traveling to India when the scent of blood reached her nose. Not human blood. She stood, blinking hard as she had a sudden intrusive memory of the stench of Gettysburg, and then she shook it off and followed the scent. She opened the door into the bar manager, who jumped halfway across the room, eyes wild, and Lorna quickly shut the door behind her as she took in the full scene. Sebastian, bleeding from the hand with a knife she didn't think was his. "I told you," she said, unhelpfully.

"I'm not from any _clan,"_ Helena interjected, eyes on the knife. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Sebastian turned quickly, eyeing the new intrusion to the room. Another woman. Unusual, but the whole situation was. Their _clothes_ , for starters. What in the name of the hells were they _wearing_? "Alright, ladies. No' tha' it hasnae been fun, but I suggest you be takin' yer leaves proper now, befar the rest o' mime come huntin after this." He wiggled the blood on his hand. "Ye'll be far outweighed o' the odds."

Lorna raised her eyebrows, looking at the woman briefly before looking back at him. "Sebastian, it's me. What are you... Oh, lord." She turned to Helena, opened her mouth to speak, and had another flash of memory -

 _Skin ripping off her, viscera dripping from her, holding the pelt in her hands and crying-_

She took a deep breath, a mix of complicated, strong emotions that she couldn't accurately pin down filling her chest for a moment, and then she focused again. "You dosed him. And _I_ talked too much. Sebastian, it's the opium."

 _Opium_...

A flash of clarity. This woman... he knew her. She was one of his. He could smell it her, in her blood. His mark... one of the ones Jim had assigned him to. One he owned. He had found her. Time to bring her in, then. The other... he turned his attention to her again. A spare. She wasn't marked. He had a choice... He walked forward, knife held ready, considering.

Helena raised up a hand warily, fear in her eyes. "Now, let's be reasonable," she said carefully. Lorna stepped forward, hand lightly touching his arm.

"Sebastian, I don't know if we should kill her. What if we can make a deal with this outfit? Won't Jim be pleased to expand?"

Sebastian whirled on Lorna, the knife up in a flash. "Now, ye jus' behave, lass. I'll be takin' ya where you're going shortly. But I think I'll be bringing a bonus."

She raised her hands up too in surrender, taking a step backwards. "Sebastian, what are you talking about? Focus, please! Jim sent us here for a reason, remember?"

Helena's eyes were wide as she assessed the situation, careful. "How old is he?" she snapped in Lorna's direction, as Sebastian considered her, before saying,

"Kneel, both of you. Hands behind your heads."

She shook her head slightly, though she complied with Sebastian's instructions. "I'm not sure. Old, I think. I don't really know him all that well, we're not close."

"Shit," Helena muttered, kneeling as well. "Of all the rotten fucking luck..." Sebastian walked over to her.

"Give me your hand."

"What do you mean? What's happened to him?" She asked, somewhat urgently, though Helena was a little busy staring up at Sebastian, seemingly considering whether or not to simply give over an appendage of hers, but then must have figured she didn't have much of a choice, and held it out. Lorna decided that it was worth another go at trying to convince Sebastian she was a friendly. "Sebastian, listen to me. We know each other. _Try_ and remember. Taste my blood, if that will help. There's no need to do anything ill-advised here."

Sebastian ignored her, taking Helena's arm in an iron grip and drawing the knife in a sharp motion across it. Stale blood oozed slowly- she must have been hungry- and she let out a cry of pain as the silver sent blisters splintering up her skin. Sebastian didn't pause, however, just squeezed blood from his wound into hers, a few drops, and dropped her hand. Helena snatched it to herself, shaking in pain. "He _does_ remember. That's the _issue_ ," she muttered through grit teeth.

The room was wrong. Where were the others? No. Not others. Just Silas with him today. They were rounding up for... for Jim... He leaned against the wall, tempted to close his eyes but too wary of the two unknowns in the room. He needed to get them to Jim...

"Moran, please," she pleaded, trying to think of something to jog his _recent_ memory, because it was clear now that the vividness of the memories he was experiencing was bleeding over into his reality. All she could think of was her own blood. He'd had it recently, and every vampire tasted different. Quickly, she dropped one of her hands from her head to her mouth, pushing up her sleeve, fangs extending to puncture her wrist. Now the room truly smelled of blood. Hopefully any vampires in the vicinity would just think some of their own had snuck off for some hanky panky.

The smell- a faint marker a moment ago- became like a bonfire, and he whirled on her. "What are you... what..." His eyes were unfocused, the knife still gripped tightly, but it was clear he was losing his grip on things. The room kept shifting. He could hear old voices, there were bombs and warcries...

She stood, warily, her hands extending towards him, slowly approaching him. "Sebastian, it's alright. You can relax..." Her eyes shifted to Helena. "Is there anything else you can give him? Something to snap him back to reality?" Then she blinked, and men wearing gloves and wielding silver chains were in front of her, and she flinched - and the next second they were gone. "And perhaps give _me?"_ She asked, in a much more strained tone.

"No," Helena snapped. "The opium will run its course. You get used to it eventually, but usually no one his age is stupid enough to come somewhere like this."

He could smell the blood, _her_ blood, but he had lost the thread of it, of where it came from. He was in a wagon- he and Jim, in a wagon heading... where? Where were they heading? The blood...

"Jim... can ya smell tha? I ken there's someone righ' close..."

 _"Accent, Sebastian."_

"Ah, ya nyaff, isnae like there's a bleeding crowd lis'nen."

Lorna stared at Moran for a moment. "What is he _saying?"_ She blurted, brows furrowed. She remained where was for a second, then started forward again, reaching him in a moment and carefully reaching out to touch his arm. "Sebastian. Can you hear us?"

His eyes snapped to her, the wagon fading. Someone. Someone he knew...

"Harrison." His tone was clipped, accent its usual softer lilt, expression strained with the concentration of staying present through a millennium of memories. "Back to HQ. Bring her."

She looked visibly relieved, her eyes immediately landing on Helena. "How do you want me to take her? It'd be a catastrophe, trying to take her out the front door," she pointed out, but held her hand out for the knife regardless.

He considered, hand on the wall, on _something_. Focus. "Get a drink. Bring it here. Break the glass, bring her to a doctor..."

She nodded, hand dropping to let him keep the knife for the moment, and exited the room, making sure her sleeve was pulled down to cover her bleeding wrist. She ordered a scotch at the bar with a winning smile to the bartender and got her drink in record time, returning to the room within two minutes, and moving to stand in front of Helena. "Alright. Are you going to be difficult with me, miss, or are you going to come quietly? I can assure that you'll have better treatment if you consider the latter."

Helena considered the two. "That greatly depends on where we are going."

Lorna glanced at Moran, hoping vaguely for him to answer, but that looked to be unlikely, so she took on the burden herself. "Nowhere particularly unpleasant, not at least the parts I've seen. I'm a prisoner myself, and I have quite the lovely quarters to reside in. That's likely because I cooperated. If you _do not,_ I know not where they will put you. I've heard... unsavory things."

"And if I refuse to go with you entirely?" Helena tested, tone bold.

"I track ye down, ye li'le cur," Sebastian growled through grit teeth. His eyes were screwed shut, hand a bloodied fist against the wall. Then his eyes flashed open, settling dark and wild on the woman across from her. "Yer _mine_ now. Have yer scent."

Lorna sighed slightly, though she nodded. "He has mine, too. That's what his blood was for. One of his gifts, I suppose."

The woman hissed through her teeth. " _Fuck you,_ Ira." She glanced at Lorna, but then nodded. "Fine. Break the glass."

She dropped the glass and helped it along with a flick of the wrist, watching it shatter on the floor, whiskey dotting the hems of their skirts, and she motioned toward the door. "After you."

* * *

A/N

Sorry this chapter is so short! Me and the writing partner are slowly grinding back into gear after life kinda fucked us for a while, so hopefully chapters will become more frequent and maybe longer!


	7. An Unsolicited Glimpse

Helena nodded brusquely, and headed out the door. Moran tucked his bleeding hand into his coat, and followed. He was zeroed in on the scent of Harrison's blood, a guide through the shifting visions and memories.

The main room must have been composed entirely of humans, because no one looked up from their conversations or opium at the scent of blood that must have strongly accompanied them. Helena led them out through an alternate entrance, though it wasn't without a few glances back at the two of her captors. Once on the street, Lorna stepped forward to summon a cab, keen to get into it and try to escape her encroaching memories a little. She waited for Helena and Sebastian to climb in and then hoisted herself in, sitting back with an unlady-like huff.

Sebastian had a grip on the seat cushion that had torn through it like it was a pastry, and now was staring straight ahead, eyes glazed over, nostrils flared.

Helena spent the ride in sullen silence, staring out the carriage window, likely to try and memorize where they were going. That was fine. Lorna had no doubts that she wouldn't be able to escape Moriarty's web by herself, and no one had noticed their going, not that she had seen.

They finally arrived and the cab let them off a block or so away. Sebastian looked around them slowly. "It's a decent place, Jim... could do good work here."

"You already are, Moran, believe me. Come on, we're just down the street," she said, taking his arm easily to put up the front of a couple and their friend on a stroll, though she kept a close eye on Helena as she led them down the block.

The man keeping an eye on the door gave Lorna the once over in the dim light if the gaslamp, and raised an eyebrow. "An' 'oos this wif ya?"

"Prisoner, essentially," she shrugged, glancing at Helena. "Mr. Moran here is bringing her in."

He glanced at Moran, who was glassy-eyed and pale looking. "Is 'e now."

Moran seemed to gain his presence of self enough to snap "Yes," and the man looked a bit surprised.

"Ah... yes.. sorry. Right in." He still looked suspicious.

Lorna didn't waste any time in hurrying past the man, not in the mood for questions, and not sure that Moran would be very pleased if she answered them anyway, and led them deep into the bowels of the building, making a beeline for where she remembered Moriarty's office to be. _She_ certainly wasn't going to deal with this fiasco.

* * *

It took longer than Sebastian would have hoped to get in to see Jim. Time was moving in strange ways, days passing in seconds and seconds in days as his mind skipped forward and backward through his lifetime. He had no real concept of how much time had passed before a furious Jim called them into his office, having been vaguely briefed by a confused guard. "What the _feck_ _happened?!"_

Lorna gave a embarrassed glance to Sebastian. They had stuffed Helena in a holding cell to be dealt with later. "Opium. Helena drugged him."

"And who, _precisely_ , is Helena?" Jim asked slowly, every syllable carefully enunciated.

She sighed. "She was a bar manager at the demon's party. I warned Moran to watch her. He drank a drink he gave her."

Jim snarled angrily, and his hand snapped upward, grabbing Moran by the throat, nails breaking skin. The bodyguard stiffened, but knew better than to retaliate. "You... fucking... _imbecile..."_

Lorna stood back, her eyes wide, stiff as a board. She did _not_ want this attention put onto her.

"Kneel," James hissed. "And I swear if you defy me, Moran, I will stake you personally."

She watched Moran hesitate, watched him fight the fogginess in his eyes, and then he was sinking to the floor, and James turned for his desk; a tight, furious motion. He opened a drawer, and came back up with a pair of metal tongs. She winced slightly, sensing what was incoming.

Moran looked up, and bared his teeth reflexively in anger, though he quickly dropped the expression in favor of tucking his lips down. "James... how many years..."

"Too _many,_ I think to myself sometimes," James snarled, taking a step towards him, the tongs in his hand at his side. "You're _lucky_ this is all I'm going to do to you." Then his voice shifted, sickly sweet, a sarcastic smile twisted on his face. "They grow _back,_ darling, you remember."

He grit his teeth tightly, biting back his fury. "I could go."

"Oh, do you think that? You think I'd _allow_ that? After all you've seen, after all you know? Don't be a fucking _idiot._ Oh, wait! You already _were."_ He snarled, approaching closer, until he could get a grip on Moran's chin.

Lorna, for the first time, felt a glimmer of sympathy for Moran. He was trapped here, just like she'd been trapped with Vincent. Only he usually liked it.

 _I could kill you_. But he knew Jim had failsafes in place. He had made an error. He was going to pay for it. "Fine," he said, steeling himself and opening his mouth.

Without hesitation, James bashed him across the face with the tongs, the purpose almost immediately obvious. Sebastian's fangs extended, and then Moriarty shoved the tongs into his mouth, grasping hold of one of the fangs and ripping it loose.

Moran didn't give him the satisfaction of noise, swallowing the snarling howl of pain that wanted to break loose as blood filled his mouth.

She cringed as the first fang hit the floor with a clack, and then the second, and then the third and the fourth, and then the tongs as they clanged onto the floor.

Moran sat back on his feet, gathering himself as dark, stale blood oozed sluggishly from the holes left in his gums. His body was tense, mouth aching even more as his gums tried to bare his fangs in defense. He was just glad he had eaten recently. He could spare the blood, and it would clot and heal faster.

Lorna stayed completely silent, unsure if this anger would turn on her next.

James reached out a foot, the heel of his boot crushing one of the teeth slowly in a series of harsh cracks. "Out," he said with deceptive softness.

She whipped around for the door, out it in seconds, though she didn't make for her quarters as hastily as she thought she would. Instead, she waited a moment for him.

He walked out with his head held high, his jaw squared, and glared at her. "What do you want?" he asked crisply.

Well this felt like an awkward mistake now. She swallowed. "I... Suppose I wanted to make sure you were... Recovering. Nevermind, I didn't mean to intrude. I'll return to my quarters," she said hurriedly, ducking her head and turning to leave.

He watched her for a moment. "You did well intervening as you did," he said, 's's whistling slightly through the gaps where his teeth were missing. Then he turned and headed for his quarters.

She nodded slightly and split off from him, though unsure how she had intervened except for at the party, and returned to her quarters, mulling over the situation. It was the first glimpse of real humanity from Moran, as ironic as that was with their condition.

She didn't make it to her room before one of James' attendants stopped her in the hall. "Ms. Harrison. Mr. M has requested your presence immediately. I'll escort you."

She raised her eyebrows, surprised, but there wasn't exactly a way to protest an order from Moriarty, so she nodded. "Alright. Lead on."

He did, escorting her through the hallways. He didn't head for Moriarty's office, but instead for the basement levels.

This was an unexpected turn of events that she found she wasn't too fond of. Had Moriarty changed his mind about her? Was he going to lock her up, maybe even send her back to America, into the arms of Armetti?

They passed through the feeding vaults, down another flight of stairs, and into what strongly resembled a prison. A long stone hallway, with heavy wooden doors on either side, barred and locked. They stopped outside one in particular, and there were voices inside. The guard unlocked the door, opening it and motioning Lorna inside.

The voices were more comforting than silence, so she walked in without a fuss.

James was there, and Helena, having what appeared to be a civil conversation. That was starkly at odds with their surroundings, as Helena was strapped to a chair and James was wearing a pair of brass knuckles. Or... silver knuckles, judging from his barrier layer of gloves, and the distinct burns on Helena's skin. He looked up as Lorna entered. "Ms. Harrison. Good of you to join us."

"You called, I came," she replied simply, hands clasped in front of her. "How can I help you, sir?"

He smiled. "I was hoping you could help me translate our dear Helena's answers for me. It seems she's having trouble saying what she means."

She knew almost immediately what he had in mind. "It doesn't always work that reliably, sir, but I'll give it a try, certainly," she said, pulling off the glove on her right hand.

Helena comprehended with surprising quickness, and her expression darkened. "No. You stay away from me," she growled. "Mind rapist."

James smiled, ignoring her outburst. "I know it isn't always that precise. But I'm going to help."

"You won't feel a thing, Helena, that's not how it works. And... Sir?" She turned to James, confused.

"She will feel things, I'm afraid," Moriarty sighed, not looking remotely apologetic. "Tell me, Ms. Harrison, how much education did Mr. Armetti give you regarding your abilities?"

"As usual, enough, but probably severely lacking," she sighed.

He nodded slightly. "Did he make you aware that it was possible to clarify and strengthen what you can read from people?"

"Through lust," she nodded, still holding her one glove in the other hand.

James nodded, at ease, as if he were giving a lecture at university, not standing in a dungeon. "Lust is a motivating factor, but far from the only one. Primal urges are best. Some work better than others. Anger- while effective- is difficult to control. Love and fear are more predictable, but can be fickle. People can overcome it. The only thing which is both powerful _and_ predictable is pain." He eyed her, gauging her reaction.

She raised an eyebrow appraisingly. It was nothing she hadn't dealt with before. "Interesting."

He nodded approvingly. "Tonight, I will cause the pain, while you read her. In future you will be instructed on how to do both at once."

She nodded. "It sounds easy, to be perfectly honest," she said, eyes back on Helena. She smiled.

Helena bared her fangs at Lorna, struggling slightly, but the cuffs were engraved with binding sigils, and breaking through them was no small feat. "Excellent. Shall we begin?" he asked, adjusting the brass knuckles.

She nodded, hand raising to hover over Helena. "Yes."

Jim nodded again, then without further ado pressed the silver bands into the soft skin of Helena's sides, just below her ribs. The skin there sizzled and cracked, and Helena let out a shriek of pain, writhing.

Lorna placed her hand on the side of Helena's face, ignoring her pain easily, and began concentrating, eyes closing, mind reaching out.

Jim began walking the silver up her sides, leaving strips of charred and peeling skin. Helena thrashed, as Jim calmly asked "Where is the demon you serve?"

She spat at him. "Fuck you!"

Lorna waited, silent. "More," she said, to James.

He didn't bother looking at her, just turned to a worn wooden box in the corner. He rummaged for a moment, before returning with a small syringe and a vial of clear liquid marked simply, in a tight hand, "holy." He filled the syringe, setting the vial aside, and pressed the needle into Helena's side, where she couldn't resist him. He depressed the plunger, and the shriek that the woman emitted was music to his ears.

"Where's the demon?" She asked softly, hand remaining gentle on her skin.

"Shut up!"

And, without delay, a picture popped into her mind. A cathedral she recognized, in the neighborhood where she had grown up. She blinked, dropped her hand.

"I know where it is."

"Good," James said calmly. "That will do for tonight." Helena was still shrieking and thrashing as the holy oil made its way through her bloodstream, burning like fire. "We'd best leave her to ride this out," he suggested, smiling.

She chuckled. "Fine by me, sir."

They left the cell, the guard closing the door behind them. "So, you have the location?" He pressed, smiling at her.

She nodded, sliding her glove back on. "Kensington. Near my family's house, strangely enough. A cathedral."

He nodded. "Excellent. Be ready to leave within the hour. I don't want to delay. Meet me in the upper halls."

She balked a little, raising her eyebrows. "We're... going after the demon now, sir? Without Mr. Moran recovered?"

"Moran is likely to spoil the party," he said flippantly, heading for the stairs. "I'd just as soon he stay recovering. Besides, we don't want the demon time to wander off."

"Of course, sir," she dipped her head, knowing that this was not something she would be able to change his mind on. He still had her pelt, too. If he died from this stupid mistake, she could get it back, no problem.

* * *

James was waiting in a half an hour's time. He was dressed in a suit, but beneath his jacket his waistcoat was lined with pockets, all tucked with chemicals of various types. Things he knew would disorient a demon.

She arrived, weaponless, as she was forced to do while effectively their prisoner, and gave him a polite smile. "Ready to go, sir?"

He nodded, offering her his arm. "I have a carriage ready. I assume you can direct us."

She nodded in affirmation. "It's been a long time, from my perspective, but not long enough to forget entirely. I only hope we don't run into my brother..."

He nodded. "Does he still live in the area?" he asked as they walked out to the street, stepping into the carriage.

"Haven't the slightest idea," she shrugged, letting the driver give her hand up into the cab of the thing, her other hand occupied with her skirts. "It's been twenty-four years since I last saw them. My parents will be in their late sixties, if they're even alive, and my brother won't even be forty, but it's possible he never left the family home. After my disappearance, I'm sure my parents were keen on keeping him close," she said, settling back in her seat.

"Disappearance?" He probed casually as he leaned back in his seat and the carriage got underway. He knew much of her history, but it was always good to hear it from a first hand perspective.

"I left for America, they heard from me one time once I arrived, and then never again. I can only imagine they think I disappeared."

He nodded his understanding. "Why don't you get in touch? Explain the situation?" He kept his amused grin off of his face.

She stared dryly at him for a second. "Yes, because I so look forward to being burned at the stake."

He shrugged. "Your loss," he smiled blithely. He reached up to slide back the partition to speak to the driver. "Direct the fellow, won't you?"

She turned from him without making any expression and quickly relayed her instructions to the driver. Vaguely, she wondered what Moran was up to, recovering from his traumatic injuries.

* * *

They eventually pulled to a stop, and Jim lounged calmly, waiting for the driver. The door opened and he vaulted out onto the street, looking around calmly.

She let the driver give her a hand down from the carriage, taking a second to look around the block, and had another dizzying moment of clarity in her memories, which she did her best to shake off. There was the cathedral where her parents had taken her and her brother every Sunday, there was the pub that she'd only snuck into once or twice, there was the corner where she'd been kissed for the first time. Around the corner, should they walk down there, was her old house. The place she'd spent nearly 24 years living in. Had it changed? Had they redecorated with the changing times? It had been 24 years, an equal amount of time to her human life, away from it.

The driver closed the door behind her and she snapped out of it, only just becoming aware of the dim light in the sky. It wouldn't affect her, but she had no idea how Moriarty's tolerance was.

Moriarty watched her, interest in his eyes, but then turned to the cathedral. "I do hate these places, he sighed. "Well thought out for a demon."

"If you're calling the intelligence of demons in general in question I'm... slightly concerned for our healths," she said quietly, eyes on the familiar stained glass in the windows. "At least we know entering the place shan't be too difficult. Though we may need to find a side entrance, considering the time..."

"I call everyone's intelligence into question," he said matter-of-factly. "I've yet to meet a demon I couldn't outthink. I would love to be surprised here, but I doubt I will be." He glanced at the greying sky. "Agreed. Side entrance. Lead the way."

She sighed in a bit of an unlady-like manner, then headed down the side of the cathedral, into the wide alley beside it, and followed her memory to the priest's entrance. Once there, she looked behind her to make sure Moriarty was still with her, and then she grasped the iron handle and pulled sharply, the internal lock breaking easily and surprisingly quietly, and she stepped inside without hesitation. Immediately, the smell of the place was strikingly familiar, and she took in a deep breath, a sense of calm filling her. She knew this place. She knew the exits, she knew where the holy water was kept, and she knew the hours the church operated. No one they weren't supposed to run into would be here. She led the way down the short hall into the church proper, and walked two steps between a line of pews before her attention snapped to a man facing the altar, praying on his knees.

James- who had been on her heels, eyed the man with interest. "Now, I've once-upon-a-time been a proud Irish Catholic, but even I found it difficult to kneel so fervently on stone." His voice echoed through the hall, and the man whipped around, startled. James was unphased, adding "What is on your mind that has you pleading with the god who bled?"

Both the man and Lorna made eye contact at the same moment, and both reeled, taking a mirrored step back. The man completely ignored Moriarty's question, his mouth agape. " _Lorna?"_

"Well, damn."

Jim took in the facial features, cataloguing ear lobes, lip shape, nostrils, pupil distance... He smiled. "Well, this is good fortune. Your brother, Lorna. Charmed."

Lorna didn't know what to say, after her initial response, and stood there for a long moment, staring. "...Eric. How's mum and papa?"

He looked at her for another stunned moment, then said emptily, "Dead. Mum's dead. Papa... may as well be. Where the hell have you been?" He walked closer, eyes narrowed in perplexity slowly solidifying into confused anger. "You haven't aged a day..."

Had she been human, she would have been wiping sweaty palms on her skirts and trying to control her heart beat. As it was, she stared at him steadily, if a little melancholily. She sighed, looking at Moriarty for a moment, then back at Eric. "America, for a long time. Nearly this whole time, actually. I... well. I may as well tell you, as you won't believe me anyways; I was attacked, and made into something other than human, and now I don't age." She crossed her arms over her chest, looking down at the ground slightly, and heaved another sigh. "What... what happened to mother?"

"She got sick," he said shortly, eyeing her up and down. Then he sighs. "Vampire," he says softly. "Of course you are."

"I'm... what? Excuse me?" She asked, flabbergasted, though doing her best to hide it and mostly succeeding. She glanced at Jim, a sinking feeling in her stomach. "Oh, _Eric..._ Don't tell me..." He smirked just slightly.

"So tell me, what have you come to a church for, sister mine? I thought your type didn't fare well here?"

James was watching in delighted silence.

"I imagine you know precisely why I am here, now that you apparently know what I am," she said simply, a finger running back and forth on the fabric of her satin skirts. "I imagine that you know why I'm able to stand here with so little trouble. You were never a religious boy, Eric. You just liked to be praised."

"And what nice praise it was," he said, adjusting his jacket. "Take my advice and your little boyfriend and leave, Lorna. You don't want to be here."

"Oh ho! Little boyfriend. What a charming individual," James purred.

"Please don't hurt him unless he forces you," she said quietly, though purposefully avoiding using James' name, to keep Eric in the dark. Less quietly, she said, "We're here for a reason. You know what it is."

"And I'm telling you that it isn't going to go well," Eric said, walking toward them slowly. He pulled out a pocket watch, flicking it open and sucking on his teeth. "Tshh... out a bit late, aren't we? It's near to dawn."

She gave him a bit of a wry smile. "It's never bothered me overly much. I used to sit on the front porch in Virginia and paint the sunrise. How much do you _truly_ know about me, Eric? Surely you know advancing on me like this is... a poor idea."

He eyed her. "What, no hug from my long lost sister? I used to come sit in your bed when you were afraid of thunderstorms. Or was it me who was afraid? I don't remember..."

"It was you. I never shied away from the wild of nature." Her smile grew wider. "I would read to you, sometimes, remember? That's the older sister's job."

"So here we are." He stopped about ten feet away. "What do I need to do to convince you to walk away?"

Her smile grew slightly resigned. "You can't, Eric. We need to meet... It."

He sighed. "Please don't say that, Lorna. I'd really like to not be enemies, here."

"So don't. Help us, Eric. I'm sure we can make it more worthwhile than some demon squatting in a church can," she scoffed.

"Who's 'we', exactly?" Eric asked suspiciously, eyeing James again. "I find that doubtful."

She looked towards James, raising her eyebrows slightly in question. "He was a bright kid, sir. Might be still."

"That doesn't answer my question," Eric pointed out. James ignored his protest, eyeing him up and down. Then he nodded.

"I'll trial him. What is the demon offering you, boy?"

Eric came up short. "I feel as if I know better than to jump on the soonest train in the station without asking where it's going?"

"Any monetary compensation I am prepared to triple. The same for real estate or political influence. If he's offering some of his power, I intend to make him a junior partner in my operation, so that would still be available to you," James drawled, sounding bored. "And if I fail, you can pretend we knocked you unconscious and save face."

Eric looked rather like he didn't know what decision to make. "Eric," Lorna said quietly, "Believe me, you don't want to cross this one."

"Believe you?" he laughed incredulously. "You've been _dead_ for twenty years, need I remind you?"

She stared at him for a moment. "Little brother. If you know about the demon in the basement, if you know about vampires, you know that you can't hope to kill me before I kill you, if it has to come to that. You might injure me - I might have to hide for a month to let my wounds heal - but under no odds could you hope to attack either of us and win. We _will_ be seeing that demon, and you will not stop us. Whether or not you throw your life away in the process is up to you. I was dead for twenty years because I couldn't bring this back to my family. I couldn't leave America, couldn't leave my overbearing _husband._ I wasn't allowed. Not by circumstance, and not by him. Please, Eric. Don't make me harm you. Listen to my friend."

He studied her for a long moment, then said, "Quadruple the pay."

Jim laughed, breaking the tension. "The boy has balls! Quadruple it is. Lead the way." Eric hesitated, but then nodded and turned, walking to open a side door off of the sanctuary.

Lorna relaxed slightly, silently relieved. She had no doubt that she had the stomach to end Eric if she had needed to, but she would rather do almost anything else. She'd been 24 when she'd left, and 20 of those had been spent with him in her life. She followed the two men into the side door and down a narrow staircase that she'd used only once during her many years of attending the church - she'd been asked to get an extra case of wine, and she'd spent as little time in the dark cellar as possible.

Eric stopped outside the thick wooden door to the wine cellar. "Take a left at the first intersection. She's in the room at the end of the hall."

"She. Charming," Jim smiled, looking smug and opening the door, walking through without hesitation.

Lorna took in a deep breath and let it out slowly before following, sparing one glance at Eric before following Moriarty down the hall. James lead the way unerringly, and turned to Lorna as they approached the door. "You're the grifter. I expect you to keep her distracted and talking."

"Alright. What are you going to do? Won't do for me to be surprised," she pointed out, shrugging slightly.

"Why? You can't help." And he pushed the door open.

Beyond was a stone room lined by arches set into the walls. It appeared to have been a crypt of some nature, but now it had been transformed into a living space. There were a few chairs, a stack of books, a cot, and a woman. And _what_ a woman. She was facing away from them, but James could feel the power rolling off of her in waves. "Hello, darling."

Lorna was... _immediately_ uncomfortable. This was the second demon she'd met in her comparatively short life, and the last one had left such a mark that it was viscerally unpleasant to be in the same room with one once again. Still, she had a job to do, and she could sense James had a trick or two up his sleeve. Hopefully they would leave here intact. "Quite a place you have here. Not as nice as mine, but I suppose that's what happens when you're a little... out in the cold, so to speak."

The woman turned, and Jim raised an eyebrow, impressed. She wasn't beautiful in the classic sense, but she _was_ beautiful, there was no denying that. Her features were full, but angular, hair a deep black, and her eyes held a spark of mischief and something else. There was a magnetic aura to her that was instantly apparent. She gave off the sense that she could end you, but that you'd enjoy it thoroughly.

"And who might you be?" she asked. Her eyes were locked on Lorna.

Lorna gave a rather dry smile. "You can call me Yvette. No offense intended, but I rather not spread my name around until I know you'll not use it against me."

She laughed. "A clever one. Though I should expect as much from a sister of the line. What brings you here, dearest? Do you want a boost?" James let them talk, and leaned against the wall, one hand behind him, writing rapidly on the stone with hardened charcoal.

She tilted her head slightly, raising an eyebrow. "A boost? Forgive me, I've never dealt with a demon like... you, before. Last time I met one he had eyes like glowing marble and a voice that I imagine could have smote a churchgoer on contact. I never made a deal."

She sighed. "Sounds positively vile. No, I'm nothing like that..." She walked forward a few steps. "I'm like you. Seduction is my art. I can give you something you _desire_."

Lorna took a step forward herself, her head tilting forward just slightly so she looked through her eyelashes at the she-demon. "Oh? And what do _you_ think I desire?"

She laughed again. "Well, you're already beautiful, and ageless... what if I gave you the ability to fascinate anyone who is attracted to you?" she suggested. "Or perhaps enhanced abilities you already have?"

Lorna smiled again, folding her gloved hands together in front of her. "And what is the price of accepting such a favor?"

"Nothing you'll need, Yvette, were we pretending? A little loyalty, a little trust, an oath or two." She reached out to touch Lorna's cheek. Her skin was soft.

"Nothing about a soul or a first child? But oh, I suppose that's not on the table for me, is it now?" She smirked, leaning into the touch, though the closer she was to the demon, the more she could feel that strange magnetism, that uncomfortable power. Maybe to those who hadn't seen the worst of what their kind had to offer would have been more attracted to it. "What kind of oath, then? Trust might be a little harder to come by."

"As interesting as this is..." Jim's tone suggested the contrary. He tossed a vial in the demon's direction, which shattered and let out an acrid smelling smoke. She shrieked in surprised fury, momentarily off guard, and he slid behind her as she stepped backward, unrolling a piece of paper and setting it under her feet. She stepped directly into a large black circular arrangement of lines and runes, which suddenly glowed fiery orange in congress with a series of words on the wall. "That will do it, I think."

Lorna's eyebrows shot upwards in surprise. "Good lord, I thought that could take hours to complete. Well done!"

He dusted his hands off, ignoring the shrieks of rage from the demon. "I've had time to research over the years. You'd be surprised how little people have tried to improve old methods."

She stood there watching the demon struggle in its mostly invisible bonds for a moment, then looked towards James again. "So what now?"

"Now, we leave," Jim said casually. The demon's eyes flashed to him.

"No! Don't!" she says furiously. He glanced at her with the hint of a smile.

"Ah. Noticed my little caveat, did you? It's a nice bit of work. Difficult, but I enjoy a challenge."

"What caveat?" Lorna asked, mostly focused on the demon now. The demon looked very, very upset.

"He's the only one who can release me," she hissed through her teeth, glaring fire at James. "If he leaves, I'll be trapped here for-"

"-eternity. Yes yes, we all get the point," James said, waving her off.

"Oh, well done, again," Lorna chuckled, and raised her eyebrows again at the demon. "How about that favor, darling?"

"Fuck off," the demon snarled.

"Now now," James sighed. "That's no way to play. Here is what will happen next. You will swear the oath of fealty to me, and..." he glanced at Harrison, "Provide 'Yvette' here with a boost, or I will leave you here to rot, and have you walled in. I have stonemasons waiting."

The demon bristled, fury radiating off her in ways, and Lorna could almost swear that the air around her visibly wavered. The demon glanced between the two of them, seemingly trying to make up her mind.

"Fine," she snarled, hands curled into fists.

"Excellent," he said, leaning against the wall. "Swear the fealty first. Don't make any... _mistakes_... I'll know, and I will leave." The demon seethed a moment longer, than began speaking in a foreign, crackling tongue.

Lorna returned to James' side, hands still clasped in front of her. "This has been an interesting morning. What favor do you think I should ask for?"

"That's up to you, dear." He reached out to toy with the ends of her hair. "My gift to you, for a job well done. Don't worry too much about phrasing- her oath will prevent her from doing you harm, since you are in my service."

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye as he touched her hair, wondering what the hell that was about, but nodded, already considering.

James stepped back, listening to the end of the oath of fealty and nodding his approval. "Well done, my dear. Now, wait for my dear Yvette to think of her boon and then we'll release you."

"No need to wait, I know," she said, stepping forward again, towards the other woman. "Clarify my telepathy. I would like to be able to control when I do and don't hear partners. Make it easier for me."

The demon raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, just nodded. "It's done. Now let me out."

Lorna felt no different. She glanced towards James again. "Am I.. supposed to feel something?"

He shrugged, reaching out a hand to her. "I don't know. Try it," he suggested lazily.

She pulled off her left glove and met his hand in the middle, and-

 _Hello, Ms. Harrison,_ Jim said, his thoughts clear and focused, and overly clean, as though she were seeing only precisely what he allowed.

"Hello," she said congenially, and dropped his hand with a nod. "Thank you... I'm sorry, we didn't catch your name."

"No, you didn't," the demon agreed, eyes burning.

"Now now, play nice," Jim said fondly.

The demon glared at him, but then said "Danagi."

"A delight to meet you, Ms. Danagi," she smiled, "Glad to have you working for us."

She made an obscene gesture at Lorna. "Let me out," she said, turning to James.

James shrugged. "You've sworn fealty to me. This means you will do what I say, when I say it. You will go where I tell you to go and do what I want you to do. Is that crystal clear?"

"I understand the oath," Danagi gritted out. "I'll serve you and your interests, you little undead ape. Now let me go."

He nodded, though he smirked at her analogy, and turn to smudge one of the charcoal marks on the wall with his thumb. "Let's leave this place. I rather not develop too heavy a headache."

The demon followed after him reluctantly, wrinkling her nose at him and making faces behind his back as Jim lead them back to the surface.

Eric was waiting up the stairs, sitting at one of the pews with his elbows resting on his knees. He looked up as they entered the large room, and stood. "I believe we have payment details to discuss."

"Eric," the demon said, looking surprised and annoyed. "Really?"

Eric shrugged. "I naturally assumed that you would be unable to top a pay raise to the tune of _quadruple._ Was nothing personal, Danagi."

"Greedy little shit," she snarled. "I could offer you better than _money_."

"So could I," James said casually, walking toward the door. "Especially now that you serve me."

"And, I may point out, you didn't," Eric pointed out, following after them. Lorna smirked. That was certainly her little brother.

The sun had risen by the time they exited the church, and James grit his teeth slightly as a throbbing headache began at the base of his skull. Ira's line wasn't as comfortable with sunlight as the Luxurians, but they could handle pain, so he just trudged along, heading for the street to call a cab.

They were a conspicuous foursome, Lorna was immediately aware, and spent the short wait from pavement to inside of carriage trying not to visibly react to the fear that she or Eric would be recognized and stopped. Nobody could recognize either of them, not right now. Nobody could know about her condition, but more importantly, nobody could see Eric leaving with these strange people. They would have to be dealt with before someone who could put a face to Eric's last-known companions could spread information. And anybody who recognized herself or Eric, she would rather avoid killing.

They got into the cab without incident, and James gave the necessary address, the cab taking off in that direction, and he sat back, looking satisfied.

"Am I permitted to know your name now?" Eric asked, looking at Moriarty. "Lorna did a good job avoiding accidentally informing me."

"No," James said cheerfully. "We'll see about that after a trial period. Once you've been processed through security we'll discuss details."

Eric shrugged a little and leaned back, settling in for the ride.

Lorna, in the meanwhile, burned with questions for Eric. About their childhood friends, the details of her mother's death, her father's condition, hell, the old man who ran the flower shop two blocks over. Everything she had missed. Everything that had been stolen from her.

* * *

They stopped outside the bank entrance, and Jim lead the way, inside his shoes clicking on the marble floor as he navigated to the lower levels. When they exited to the network proper, Moran was waiting, eyes dark with fury, lips a tight line with sunken places where his fangs should be.

Lorna immediately averted her gaze from him, wary about the fury in his gaze, and completely missed the absolute glee that flickered onto Danagi's face and was gone as quickly. The silence between the party became a little too long, and then Lorna cleared her throat. "Mr. Moran, meet my brother, Eric, and our new resident demon, Danagi."

"Charmed, I'm sure," he said, lisping, in a tone that suggested he was very much less than charmed. His eyes never left Jim's. "You and I need to talk, sir."

James snorted, but stepped forward anyway. "First you must make arrangements for our new guests. Or delegate, but to someone with a brain in their head. I'll meet you in my office." And he headed off, leaving the four of them to stand in silence for another moment.

Moran's voice was terse as he called "Wood." One of the guards in the room stepped forward. "Yessir?"

"You and Matthews escort our... _guests_... to appropriate quarters. See that Ms. Harrison returns safely to her quarters as well."

Lorna sighed, and Eric chanced a look at her, perhaps wondering what her position here truly was, and then they were being ushered off and there was no chance to figure things out.

* * *

Moran knocked sharply on James' office door ten minutes later. He was seething. He and James had had a lot of conflicts over the years, but this was a new low.

James was sitting at his desk. "Enter, Moran. Make your grievance known."

He opened the door, and stepped inside, closing it behind him with deliberate slowness. It was times like these that he wished he had the strength of some of their kind. He would enjoy crushing the doorknob. "Sir," he said, ignoring the way he lisped. "Would you kindly describe what my position here is, and entails?"

James didn't look up from the map of London he was perusing. "You're my right hand, Moran, for me to extend and retract as needed. My bodyguard, too, but I did not leave here unaccompanied. Ms. Harrison would be a decent body shield to grab, should I have needed it. I also have the understanding from the wolf skin of hers I keep in my safe that she's been in a brawl or two."

" _Extend or retract_ ," he seethed. "Alright, _sir_ , _retract_ me. Get yourself killed. I look forward to getting out of this bloody _thankless_ and _impossible_ position."

He laughed then, throwing his head back with the force of it, and when it subsided a little met Moran's ice blue eyes with the mirth of a mischievous faerie. "So burdened, are you? What do you expect to do afterwards?"

"Die," he said coldly, none if the emotion in his voice. "If I'm lucky enough to survive whatever you'd send at me from beyond the grave, I'm not sure. Something worth my time." The phrase had a turned meaning among their kind, to an extent. Time among immortals was devalued to the point of worthlessness. If you lived forever, or near to it, seconds were a pittance. Time was worth little. But he meant it that way. For all he cared at the moment his work for Jim was worse than useless.

Jim's amusement faded a little. "So dejected, Sebastian. I haven't seen you this frustrated in many years. You made a mistake, Moran. You're not in my good graces. It's happened before, it'll happen again. To speak of time in so long a scale and then expect me to forgive you so quickly?"

"There is a difference between punishing me and making my work pointless," he returned waspishly. "What use is there in protecting you if, the very moment I make a mistake, you make it your urgent goal to get yourself killed? I am not perfect, James! If you are incapable of riding out my errors without becoming suicidal then it is only a matter of time."

"It was _one_ little demon, Moran, you know the tricks up my sleeve. There was no present danger. You need to put away the memory of your mother and stop acting like a man possessed," he snorted.

He grit his teeth remaining, nostrils flaring, and finally he nodded. "Very well. You have exceeded my capacity to care."

He raised his eyebrows slightly, eyes piercing on Moran. "Not thinking of doing something foolish, are we, Sebastian?"

"No, sir," he responded, his whole body slowly relaxing, muscles uncoiling, melting away from 'ready to pounce'. His tattoos- darker than usual under stress- became the only indicator than anything was wrong.

He gave James a smile, showing off the raw gaps in his mouth. "I'm glad everything went well. Do you need anything else?"

James didn't trust that for an instant. But he smiled, and moved to lean against his desk, sliding his hands into his pockets. "No," he said, nodding towards the door. "Go relax. I'll have someone take care of your more menial tasks," he added, graciously, but already he was making plans to keep an eye on Moran. At least for a couple of days.

"That won't be necessary, sir," he returned, and turned to go, ears perked for trouble until he was clear of the door. He had no intention of causing trouble. Not yet, anyway. He knew James would be watching, and he took his position seriously. But he was a sniper. He had more patience than anyone in this organization, James included. He could wait.

* * *

She was separated from Eric almost immediately, which was a disappointment that she had been partially prepared for, and found herself crawling into bed in her shift before she'd hardly realized it, perhaps drawn to the human comfort of sleep. She wasn't sure why her and her kin almost never felt the need for sleep - it only made an eternal life seem longer - but she had always quietly missed the regular sensation of floating away into the deep, dark nothingness or dreams, and an escape from reality. She drifted off more quickly than she usually did, and, after the unknowable amount of time that passes between dreams, entered one.

* * *

She was standing at the window of a house, looking out on a lamp-lit street. A street she recognized. She was standing in her family's house, in her old bedroom, looking across the cobblestone at the enclosed garden of the Milton family's house. The trees were enormous - they'd been saplings the last time she'd seen them, but now they looked to be of at least fifty years now. She turned from the window, contemplating this strange realization, and paused as she saw the man sitting on the bed. There was very little light in the room, but her eyes were well-attuned to the dark, and she knew almost instantly who he was. Her chest filled with a loving warmth. "Sebastian," she found herself saying, "I was worried."


End file.
